Now we are home
by Roses-and-Cinnamon
Summary: The Saxons have been defeated and Britain has found her king. But not everyone settles into this life without difficulties and some have never felt more alone in this country... TristanxOC, LancelotxOC, PostMovie, hence AU, since both knights survive.
1. Prologue

_Now we are home_

_A.N.: This story is already finished. I am going over each chapter again and again before posting, since there are a few minor details I don't like yet, but the story itself is done. So you'll never have to fear that I'll abandon this fic or lose interest in writing or whatever. Enjoy and please be so kind as to leave a review. _

Prologue

The morning air was chilly and the wind bore with it the scent of snow and winter. The sky, however, was as clear as polished glass and the rising sun painted the rolling hills a delicate shade of green and grey. The forest near the mighty structure of Hadrian's Wall, devoid of leafage in this season, seemed an ominous, looming mass.

The fields were bare, the early sunlight turned the stubbles a bright bronze. And there, in the distance, like a mutated, many-legged beast, came the army of Saxons, pouring over the hills, one big, putrid mass, disturbing the serene picture of a quiet winter morning.  
>They were headed for the Roman fortress at Badon Hill, guarding the main gate of the Wall, and there was such an air of violence about them that one could be sure that they did not intend to leave much of the fort standing.<p>

Already an ominous cloud was rising over the fields behind the Wall. Black smoke swirled in the morning air, fed from hay fires.  
>A caravan was leaving the fortress through the southern gate and there were many who cast worried looks behind them, tears in their eyes as they saw their homes disappearing and words of farewell dying unuttered upon their lips.<p>

Within the fortress walls, an eerie silence had fallen. Those who had nowhere else to go were either hiding behind in their homes or preparing for the inevitable battle. The courtyards were empty, the training field deserted. A black and white kitten scampered across the way, chasing a dry leaf and apparently untroubled by the uncommon lack of activity.

One of the places still a-bustle with activity were the healing rooms. They were housed in a separate two-story brick building, nestled against the side of the fortress's main building and halfway between the gate and the stables. The upper floor held the living quarters of the healer Gweir, his family and ordinarily his apprentice, though that room had been vacant for a while now.  
>Downstairs was a large chamber that housed the surgery and four smaller rooms, barely more than alcoves, for patients who needed to be monitored overnight.<p>

Servants were busily carrying buckets of water and what amounted to the entire fortress's stock of clean linen, to be prepared for bandages, all under the watchful gaze of a tall, broad-shouldered man with grizzled hair and a short, dark beard.

Gweir had been the healer at the fortress for more than twenty years, he had seen knights come and go, had managed to save some and seen others die. But the coming Saxon attack would be his hardest test yet, he knew. He sent a swift gaze to his daughter Marian and a frown creased his forehead.

Once more, he wished he could have listened only to fatherly instinct and sent her away with the caravan of refugees, but he needed what help he could get and he had trained his daughters in his art since they were little.

Marian, the younger of the two, was now seventeen years old and a thin, pale girl, with dark brown hair and large, rather pale green eyes. She was a serious young woman who scarcely laughed and kept to herself. Most people tended to overlook her.

She had become a skilled assistant to her father over the years and many men preferred being tended to by women. It reminded them of their mothers and put them at ease.

On this day, she could not quite keep up her usual composure. In fact, Marian's hands trembled like twigs in a storm as she tied the apron around her thin waist. Fear coiled in her stomach like a nest of worms and she felt beads of cold sweat on her forehead.

Casting shy glances across the healing rooms to her father, she took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. Gweir seemed as calm as ever as he set up two kettles of water in the hearth and busied himself with the kindling.

Marian swallowed dryly, reached for a jar of willow bark on a shelf by the door and looked around for the mortar. She wanted to be as far away from here as possible, she wanted there to be no Saxons in Britain and much less close by and she wanted her mother to hold her hand. Failing that, she wanted Dagonet.  
>Alas, they had buried the gentle knight with the healer's touch only a day ago and already Marian missed his calming presence and the sound of his deep, soothing voice. Her father, to whom Dagonet had been an apprentice, had hardly spoken since his funeral.<p>

The fire in the hearth finally started crackling merrily, a cheerful sound that spoke of warmth and home and was completely amiss on this day. Gweir straightened, wiped his hands on his tunic and started inspecting their stock of clean bandages. He clucked his tongue and frowned grimly and Marian felt her heart sink even lower. She almost dropped the jar after pouring some of its contents into the mortar. Thankfully, her father had not seen. Her fragile fingers closed around the pestle and she started grinding the willow bark into a fine powder.

She looked around the room, mentally cataloging where all the instruments were so that she might find them when needed. Bile rose in her throat as she pictured having to use the bone saw on someone and she swallowed quickly, turning her gaze away.

Suddenly, the door swung open, admitting a whiff of cold air and with it, a beautiful young woman. Marian heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Her sister Rhian, who had left them a few years ago to be healer and midwife in another village, had returned upon hearing about Dagonet's death. Gweir had sent a boy to tell her not to come and to keep clear of the Saxons, but as usual, Rhian had decided to ignore his orders and stand by her family.

Her appearance alone made Marian's heart feel a little lighter, but that was not unusual. Rhian's beauty was like a candle flame in complete and utter darkness. Her hair flowed down her back in ringlets the color of a chestnut just sprung from its burr, her eyes were green and framed by long, pale lashes and she had the tall, regal bearing of one who knew of her beauty, making even the simple gown of brown linen she wore seem like the robes of a queen.

She had grown up pampered and admired and Marian knew that, although her sister was a skilled midwife and could put aside all squeamishness when the need arose, she was, in fact, quite vain. Yet she loved her dearly all the same.

Rhian ran to her father and threw herself in his arms.

"Why did you come here!" Gweir exclaimed, even as he hugged his daughter close. "I told you to stay away, my girl!"

"As if I could leave you alone in a time of need," she protested, disentangling herself from him and rushing over to envelop her sister in a flower-scented embrace.

"I'm glad you're here!" Marian told her quietly and was rewarded with a bright smile. "Come, I will bring your bags upstairs and tell you what you need to know on the way."

Gweir watched his children fondly as they hurried up the stairs together and listened to their quiet voices already discussing what needed to be done.

A heartbeat later, his smile froze. In the distance, a new sound echoed over the plane and the fort, like the heartbeat of doom. Saxon war drums.

His daughters came back downstairs again, Rhian now with an apron slung around her waist as well. Fear made Marian's eyes seem twice as huge.

"Father...?" she asked, her voice cracking on the second syllable. Gweir could only shake his head slightly. He found no words of comfort.

They stood quietly for several long moments, listening. Then another sort of thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Hoof beats!" Marian cried out and ran over to the window, her father and her sister at her heels. "There are riders approaching!"

They crowded around the narrow window, staring out at the empty street, while the sounds grew ever closer and finally, a flock of riders galloped past them. Their armour flashed in the winter sun, their banners flew in the wind and on each face, barely visible beneath their helmets, was a look of fierce determination.

Marian's eyes followed Lancelot, who led the cavalcade, until they had turned the corner, heading towards the main gate. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a little bird.

"They are back!" she whispered, an absurd hope filling her to bursting point. "I knew they'd come back!"

"Yes," Gweir agreed grimly, "I knew they'd be insane enough to die here..."

_...to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 1

_Now we are home_

_Thank you to those who have reviewed, Jen, Fierce Lady and vicklyd, and those who have my story on alert. Here is the next installment. I hope it doesn't disappoint. Please be so kind as to review._

Chapter 1

However bad Marian had expected it to get, it got about a thousand times worse.

The sounds of the distant battle had hardly faded before the doors to the healing rooms burst open and wounded men came pouring in like demons in a nightmare.

Marian was by no means squeamish and had seen a lot of blood before, but this was worse than anything she had ever experienced.

The stench of blood, sweat and dirt hung in the air, enveloping patient and healer alike and making it hard to breathe. Their aprons were soon soaked through, their hands slippery on the instruments and Marian saw with growing horror the ever dwindling supply of bandages.

The picts had brought their own healers as well, but even so, there were so many men that needed tending. Even a few Saxons were brought in, for many no longer distinguished between friend and foe while bringing in the wounded.

She worked as if controlled by a puppeteer. Her arms soon ached from lifting the limp bodies of heavy men in armor up off the pallets, her voice was hoarse with shouting instructions and her head was pounding. Across the room, she saw her father, his face grim and blood-smeared, reaching for the bone saw. The young man before him, whose leg would be lost, was certainly no older than twenty.

Suddenly, the doors were flung open once more, admitting all the Sarmatian knights at once, three of them carrying the other two. Arthur led the charge, his keen eyes quickly surveying the situation.

He directed Bors over to Rhian, while he and the other two, Galahad and Gawain, hurried towards Marian herself.

She felt the blood drain from her face as they put their burden down in front of her. All day long, she had been afraid of this, and now it had come to pass.

Before her lay Lancelot, his handsome face pale and drawn, his whole body soaked in so much blood that it was impossible to tell how much of it might be his. And there, in his chest, stuck the thick bolt of a crossbow, like the cruel mockery of a flagpole. He was still breathing, but it was flat and labored.

Marian faltered. She backed away, until she bumped into Arthur, turned towards him and stared up at him beseechingly, tears pouring out of her eyes.

"I can't do this..." she whispered, "please, I'd need... my father, or... or Dagonet..."

"You don't have them," Arthur answered, his deep voice calm despite the anxiousness in his eyes, "but you do have us. Tell us what you need done, but do it. Save him, Marian, you must!"

She hadn't even been sure that he knew her name. But somehow, it served to remind her that she was a healer. She cleared her throat and nodded at Galahad and Gawain.

"Hold him down!" she ordered. Galahad, who had been on the verge of turning away, shot her a puzzled look.

"He is unconscious, I hardly think he's going to run anywhere."

"Just do it," she snapped, gathered up her skirts and clambered onto the table. Galahad and Gawain exchanged another look of disbelief but obediently grasped their wounded comrade and held him.

Marian wiped cold sweat from her brow before grasping the bolt tentatively in both hands. Removing the rough wooden shafts from the body was nasty business, for they were stuck in the flesh as firmly as a spit in raw pig's meat. She took a deep breath and started pulling, while slowly turning it over in the wound.

The pain was not enough to wake the weakened knight, but it made him moan and jerk beneath his brothers' hands all the same. Finally, after what felt like hours of biting her lip and wiping her brow, the nasty bolt came lose of flesh and armor and Marian cast it aside hurriedly. Galahad put his large hands over hers as she pulled frenziedly at Lancelot's armor and helped her remove it quickly.

She wasted no time, plunging her finger into the wound in his chest to the utter horror of all those around her, closed her eyes and poked around cautiously.

"Lucky bastard..." she murmured, "...missed the heart... the lung, too, from the feel of it..."

Her eyes flew open again and she snatched up a bowl of water and some of the leftover clean cloth to bathe away the dirt and dried up blood, before washing the wound with strong alcohol and wrapping it up tightly. She stared at the bandage, her lips pressed together in a thin, white line and only allowed herself to relax a little after only a relatively small red spot appeared and the cloth was not immediately soaked through.

"Will he live?" Arthur asked beside her, his voice still tense with trepidation. She flinched a little, only now once more reminded that he was still beside her, and shrugged helplessly.

"Time will tell, mylord. I have to see what other injuries he has sustained, whether or not he has caught a fever... Ask again tomorrow, sir. Then I may tell you."

OooOooO

Across the room, Rhian was fighting her own battle. Bors had flung his barely breathing bundle of knight down in front of her and it took her a moment to recognize the face beneath all the hair, the blood and the dirt.

Once she had, however, her face had turned to stone, careful to hide the turmoil in her heart. She had not seen him in over three years, ever since their bitter fight a scant few days before her wedding to Eadwig the miller, before leaving her family and her friends behind to go away with a husband she hardly knew and did not love. Still, Eadwig had been good to her so far, he treated her as a worthy companion and a friend, and she knew that he loved her, in his own quiet way. He had never once questioned her about her reasons for suddenly agreeing to marry him, had never asked, whether the child she had lost five months after their wedding had been his.

Tristan's heartbeat was faint beneath her fingertips and she had to work quickly to staunch the bleeding from his numerous wounds. Bors kept to his brother's side, his face ashen and his expression grim. He lent her a hand whenever she asked for it and did not object to her harsh tone.

Finally, she tied off the last bandage and leaned backwards with a sigh.

"He'll make it," Bors exclaimed. It was no question, it was a statement, meant to reassure him as well as her, but Rhian did not believe in glossing over the truth. She shook her head, her beautiful face looking pinched with exhaustion, and steadied herself against the table as a wave of dizziness swept over her.

"We don't know that yet," she answered, hating how her voice cracked and fighting back the sudden moisture in her eyes. Bors fell silent and they both regarded Tristan's quiet face for a short while.

Even unconscious, he still looked weary of his surroundings. His brow was slightly furrowed, his mouth curled downward and his long, dexterous fingers curled into loose fists. Thinking back, Rhian had a hard time recalling his smile.

She could not pinpoint the exact moment in time she had fallen in love with him. Perhaps it had been the day he had allowed her to sit on his horse for a while, when she had been only seven and he already a young man of twenty. He had been at the Wall for only two years at that time and he had not yet seen so much pain and suffering. Back then, smiling had been easy for them.

Another moment she could picture as being the one she had fallen for him was on her fifteenth birthday. She had been wearing her finest gown and Marian had braided colorful ribbons into her hair. It had been such a happy day. She remembered it as if it were only yesterday. His keen amber eyes had been unguarded and laughing for once as she had boldly told him that he would have to grant her a wish, as it was her birthday. And when she had demanded a kiss, her cheeks burning hotly with embarrassment, he had not laughed at her. Instead, he had grasped her face gently and given her her first kiss ever, and a more perfect one no girl could wish for.

But over the next two years, reality had become too harsh a mistress to ignore.  
>At first, they had found solace in each other whenever life dealt them an unkind hand. But no amount of love can protect one from the reality. After a while, she could no longer ignore that what they had was sinful and that her father would never condone it. And she could no longer ignore that Tristan would mysteriously turn deaf whenever she tried to speak of marriage. When she finally became pregnant, she knew better than to tell him. She simply let him know that she would be marrying Eadwig the miller. He left on an extended scouting trip the very next day and she was married and gone by the time he returned.<p>

Only through Marian had Rhian heard later that he had become increasingly reclusive and broody...

She took his hand in hers under the pretense of feeling his body temperature and once again bit back tears. For all her beauty and stubbornness, Tristan remained the one thing in her life she had wanted and failed to obtain. Even now, with her being a married woman and him thus even more unobtainable than ever, she knew she could not bear his death. After three years, she had thought that her love for him had faded to the dull ache of a bittersweet memory. But as he lay before her now, barely clinging to the last threads of life, she felt as if her heart was being torn in two and she found herself praying like she had never prayed before.

_...to be continued..._

_A.N.: This was a much longer chapter initially, but it felt wrong, so I decided to cut it in half. Next chapter will be up shortly._


	3. Chapter 2

Now we are home

_Thanks to my reviewers, Azure83, J.J, and again vicklyd and Fierce Lady. Please review again. _

Chapter 2

He was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen. The flickering light of the candles played with the reflections on his black, glossy curls and his face was, now that he was sleeping, relaxed and peaceful. Marian watched with rapt fascination how his eyes sometimes moved beneath his lids and his long fingers, curled slightly around the thick woolen blanket, twitched ever so slightly once in a while. He was probably dreaming.

Lancelot and Tristan were unwell. Along with the young pict whose leg had to be taken off, they were the healers' biggest concerns. Everyone else was dead, clearly dying or well enough to move about, but those three continued to teeter on the brink of life and death.

The first night was crucial, Gweir had reminded his daughters, and together with the healers of the picts, they had set up a schedule so someone would be with each of the patients at all hours of the night.

Rhian was at this moment in the alcove next to this one, watching over Tristan's sleep, and her father was monitoring the young pict. His condition was gravest, so he had insisted on being the one watching over him.

The alcoves were sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a wooden chair and a narrow table, but they were very clean and the beds were more comfortable than those Gweir and his family slept in themselves.

The walls were made from brick and whitewashed, the floor swept clean and a basket of herbs hung from the ceiling, perfuming the air with a lovely, delicate scent.

Marian had accepted her charge with more than a little trepidation. Being alone with Lancelot, awake or not, made her uneasy.

She had watched him again and again over the past few years, admiring the way the morning sun would light up his eyes, blush at the sight of his rakish grin and imagine that someday it might be her he would look at with that smoldering gaze in his dark, passionate eyes. On the few or not so few occasions he had been injured and Gweir had to tend to him, Marian had hidden herself in one of the alcoves, like the one he lay in now, to peep through the curtains and see him remove his shirt, her face red and hot with both embarrassment and excitement.

Yet for all her admiration and even the occasional dream she would not even tell Rhian about, she had never once spoken to him or dared to make her presence known. For the truth was that he scared her to death.

He was the best and most deadly of all of Arthur's knights, the tip of the sword of the forces at Hadrian's Wall, and his reputation concerning women was that of a complete scoundrel. But that was not even the main reason why he scared her. There was something about him, something dark and intense, like a black flame that would burn her up if she ever got too close.

He had a physical presence like few others. Although he was not the tallest of the knights, all eyes were immediately drawn to him whenever he entered the room. The only one surpassing him in that regard was Arthur himself, but his was a calming presence, he could make one feel safer with just one word or one look from his vivid green eyes.

Lancelot murmured something in a foreign language, his voice barely audible, and Marian tensed. If he were to wake up, she would have to notify her father immediately. But he merely shifted a little in his sleep, grimaced and clutched the blanket tighter in his hands.

Her fingers hovered over his forehead, unsure whether or not to touch him, all the while calling herself silly and foolish in her own head. A mere few hours ago, she had had her fingers inside his wound and had mopped up his blood with her bare hands. What on earth should stop her from touching his forehead to feel his temperature?

She took a deep breath and gently laid her hand on his skin, feeling it cool and surprisingly soft beneath her fingers. A slight smile curled her lips upwards as she saw his furrowed brow relax beneath her touch.

Feeling bolder, she caressed his hair, amazed that the glossy curls were really as soft as they looked. He looked innocent in his sleep, and much younger than usual. She could actually picture what he must have looked like as a little boy. Suddenly, his eyelids fluttered and opened. His gaze was slightly unfocused as he looked up at her, her fingers now frozen in his hair.

"Your hands are soft...," he whispered, again barely audible, and then... "Guenevere..."

His eyes drifted shut again and Marian sat back, suddenly cold and sad once more. He had never really been awake.

OooOooO

When Rhian woke up, her neck and back stiff and sore from sleeping in a hard wooden chair, she felt his gaze on her at once. His eyes had always been very much like those of his hawk, amber in color, sharp and piercing and damn near unreadable. His hair was brushed back from his forehead, his jaw clenched tightly and his strong hands curled into fists at his sides.

Rhian felt the words die in her throat as her gaze found his. It had been so long since she had seen his eyes, had felt them on her and now to see him looking at her in such anger almost broke her heart.

She cleared her throat.

"How are you feeling?"

Tristan ignored her.

"What are you doing here?"

In her memory, his voice had sounded much softer and kinder. It sent a slight shiver down her back and she immediately straightened up, steeling herself against his coldness.

"I am taking care of you. As a matter of fact, I saved your life. Other people might be grateful."

Her voice matched his in coldness, the posture of her magnificent head was haughty and aloof.

His expression did not change, he merely turned his face away from her and looked at the wall instead.

"Some people might. And your husband doesn't object to you being here?"

"He doesn't!" she retorted bitingly. "He knows I am helping my father." She turned away from him and busied herself with the little herb basket, so as to not give him the satisfaction of seeing tears in her eyes.

"And of course..." he paused, drawing a labored breath, "your father would be your only reason for... returning..." Tristan stopped abruptly and coughed. It was a weak, painful sound.

She whirled around, suddenly concerned. Her eyes widened as she took in the beads of sweat on his forehead and his pallid complexion and she cursed herself and her own vanity. How could she not have noticed?

"Be quiet," she told him, swept over to him and put her hand on his forehead. He was on fire.

"Tell Arthur..." he growled, now gasping for air with every word, "... Saxons... are too many..." He tried to grasp her hand, but his own was lacking strength and fell back on the bed with a dull thud. His eyes strained to stay focused on her, but then rolled back into his head and slid shut.

Rhian screamed for her father.

OooOooO

A week went past. One week, in which the healing rooms seemed the only place where time still went at its own pace. All around, the hours rushed past like heartbeats and the whole world seemed to change overnight.

Arthur visited the healing rooms several times each day, to check on his knights and to talk to Gweir and bring him the latest news.

He seemed atypically self-conscious when he told him about Merlin's proposal to wed Guenevere and be crowned King of all of Britain, yet he was determined at the same time. Gweir, in turn, told his daughters and Marian carried the news to Lancelot, who still lay sleeping.

He was a puzzle to Gweir. The healer had encountered many things over the years, but Lancelot's case was a first. Tristan and the Woad boy lay unconscious with fever, their bodies fighting it each day, but Lancelot did not have a fever, nor were his wounds that grave, once properly tended. Yet his mind refused to let him wake, Gweir theorized, choosing, perhaps, to wait until he was fully restored. It would not have been a problem, had they been able to feed him somehow. He would take mouthfuls of water and some clear broth, dribbled down his throat by the ever-patient Marian, but there was no way they could get him to chew solid food.

On the eighth day, the young pict died. Rhian had come to bring him fresh water, when she found one of his comrades, who had often visited him over the past week, sitting by his side, holding his limp hand. She saw at once that the boy's chest was no longer moving and set down the water with a heavy sigh.

"I'm so sorry..." she told the young man by his bedside. "He was your friend, I take it?"

He did not react for a moment, before he turned to look at her. His vivid blue eyes were dry, but filled with anguish all the same. His lips seemed tense, the corners turned downward. Slowly, he released the young boy's hand and rubbed his fingers over the circular tattoo on his forehead, as if it were giving him pain.

"He was my brother," he replied at length. "Can I stay with him a while? Alone?"

Rhian nodded swiftly and left the alcove. Her heart felt sore with sorrow. She had seen too much death already and the ever-present fear for Tristan was eating away at her composure.

She heard panting and it took her a moment to realize that it was her, gasping for breath, her hands clutching the blue linen of her dress tightly as if to tear it to shreds. She forced her hands to relax, took a deep breath and went next to Tristan.

Once more, her heart caught in her throat. His appearance forced tears into her eyes. Her knight was pale, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his breathing was labored. He was waning before her very eyes... soon it might be him who was lying dead and cold in his bed...

She was sobbing before she even knew it, curled up beside him and wished for the world to go away.

OooOooO

On the ninth day, Marian was straightening Lancelot's sheets and bringing fresh water, all the while prattling away about all the news she had heard over the past few days. The longer his unconsciousness wore on, the less shy she became about speaking to him.

"...and he wants to move as quickly as possible, you know," she told him, nodding her head sagely, "once the worst cold is over, so people have a place to look to, father says, something befitting a king, grander than this fort. And it was a grand idea, wasn't it, to choose Camelot? It's been empty for years now, ever since that man there... don't remember his name, went back to Rome..." She paused and stood on tiptoes to lift the basket from its hook and clear out the dried-up herbs.

"Rhian is very pleased, since she lives in Camlann, and it means that we will be so much closer. Anyway, Sir Arthur... it will be hard to start calling him king, won't it? ...he says that he wants to relocate there as soon as he and Lady Guenevere are married, so that would be a few days from now. You and Tristan we'll probably have to move in a wagon..."

"Not if I can help it," Lancelot replied dryly and Marian dropped the basket with a shriek.

_...to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 3

Now we are home

_I'm sorry for the delay. Personal stuff I don't want to bore you with got in the way. Anyway, I'm back now. _

_I simply put this chapter up without reading it through thoroughly, so please excuse any mistakes I might have overlooked. I will proof-read tomorrow. _

Chapter Three

"Kill or cure!"

Gweir's voice was very grave, the steep furrow between his brows speaking of his apprehension as he looked down upon Tristan, who lay listless and shivering on the narrow bed. Arthur and Lancelot stood next to him, the latter still leaning against the wall for support. Gweir had yelled at him harshly for not staying in bed, but no power on this earth could have kept the knight away from the bedside of an ailing brother, especially if it was this grave.

"It's not his wounds that are killing him", Gweir explained upon Arthur's questioning look. "They are healing. See?" He pulled back the blanket to reveal Tristan's torso, the pale flesh littered with scars, some new, some old. He was thin, thinner than he should be, but the wounds he had received during the furious battle with the Saxons were indeed mending.

"His body cannot continue burning like this," Gweir went on and covered the knight up again, "so we must cast out the fever. To do this, the body has to be cooled with icy water and then wrapped tightly in wool to break the fever. It might work, but it is very hard on the heart. Only the strongest men survive it. Hence the name: kill or cure."

Arthur and Lancelot exchanged a brief look, before the commander nodded at the healer.

"Try it, then. We have no choice but to count on Tristan's stubbornness to keep him alive."  
>Gweir nodded and ushered them from the room. Arthur, seeing how Lancelot was still unstable on his own, tried to offer him a hand, but the furious glare he received stopped him before he could finish the gesture.<p>

OooOooO

It was as if Britain had decided to show itself from its most unwelcoming side ever. Rain poured from the heavens, pounded onto the roofs of the Badon fortress and turned the streets into muddy rivers, lighting flashed across the sky, illuminating the clouds of pewter gray, and the following thunder shook the earth.

The fortress lay still, all sounds dimmed by the raging storm, all movements restricted to the indoors. The cold, clammy air reached with sticky fingers for the windows, the sharp gusts of wind rattled the shutters and doors and mercilessly whipped the branches of trees against the walls.

Lancelot sat upright in bed, knees drawn up and his hands folded on top of the blanket. He stared out through the narrow window at the gale that was beating down onto the land, ignoring the droplets of icy rain that were frequently hurled through the window and refusing to acknowledge the creeping cold that not even the blanket could fully combat.

His mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line, his dark eyes gleamed with suppressed anger. And for once, it was directed at the man standing in the corner, his oldest friend, his commander, for whom he had risked his life more than a thousand times over the past years.

"I thought you would understand", Arthur said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Lancelot shot him a glare and huffed angrily.

"That's the worst thing about it. You did not just think I'd understand, you just assumed my cooperation! How could you, Arthur? How?"

Arthur met his eyes evenly.

"You always hated risking your life for Rome..." he began slowly, "and I understood that. But now, this... We can make this our home. We can reclaim the land we have bled for over the last fifteen years and make it ours, we can make it better, the way Rome should have been, but never was! Don't you see?"

His eyes shone with barely suppressed emotion. Lancelot, on the other hand, felt sick.

"You self-righteous bastard!" he growled, making Arthur's head snap back as if he had slapped him. "Is that all you think about? _Your _home? _Your _dreams? What about your promises to get us home? What about _our dreams_?"

The commander bristled slightly, his brow furrowing.

"You are the only one who sees it that way, Lance. Why, even Galahad believes in this, believes in _me_! I would have thought that you, as my best friend, would, too."

Lancelot's eyes narrowed and he felt his fists clench and unclench on the blanket.

"Perhaps I will", he conceded after a moment of heavy silence, "but not right now. Right now, it makes me sick to look at you, so please get out!"

Arthur hesitated, visibly reluctant to depart on such an unfriendly note, but his knight was not in the mood for more explanations. He was furious, thank you very much, and he intended to stay furious until the emotion had run its course and he could think about it rationally again.

"Out!" he yelled, as Arthur opened his mouth to argue further, and Lancelot felt a sharp pain stab though his chest, making him hiss in pain.

OooOooO

Marian had done her best to avoid Lancelot over the past few days, ever since he had woken up. Too fresh was the memory of everything she had told him while he was unconscious and she was afraid he might have understood more than he let on. Her excuses, why she refused to bring him his food or change his bandages, making her father do it instead, had been flimsy at best, but Gweir had not pressed her for the reason and she was grateful.

Rhian might have noticed otherwise, but her sister was unusally quiet as well, her eyes constantly on the door to Tristan's room whenever she felt unnoticed, fear and worry clouding her pretty features.

Marian was perhaps the only one in whom her sister had ever confided, the only one who knew how desperately Rhian loved the elusive scout and how much it had hurt her to leave when she did, marrying a man she merely liked, not loved. Still, Marian had been younger then, more naïve, and had not fully understood why her sister did not fight harder for the man she supposedly loved. Now she understood, though, that it would destroy Rhian if Tristan died.

She sighed, as she felt the weight of all that sorrow and sadness press down onto her slender shoulders. Sleep had been hard to come by over the course of the past few days. The entire fortress was on edge. The picts who had stayed after the battle had already proven to be better allies than many had expected, quicker to put aside misgivings than those who had lived so long under Roman rule.

And it was amazing how much faith they had in Arthur, she thought idly, while she was rolling new bandages. In her mind, she tried to picture the upcoming wedding between the future king and the beautiful young Pict. The smile, that was tugging at her lips, felt almost foreign on her face.

Sighing once more, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Her brief moment of peace was interrupted when she heard Lancelot's yell from behind the closed door. Immediately, she dropped the bandage onto the table, gathered her skirts and ran.

It was healer's instinct, perhaps, that overrode her hesitation to ever face him again and made her pull open the door without knocking first.

OooOooO

On any other day, Lancelot would have had a hearty laugh at the way Marian's expression turned from righteous indignation to pale-faced shock as she burst into the room to berate whomever it was that was upsetting her patient, only to find that it was Arthur himself. On this occasion, however, he found himself lacking the necessary humor. If anything, her arrival made him angrier still.

The girl regained her composure remarkably quickly, considering both men were glaring at her with varying degrees of annoyance. She squared her shoulders and clasped her thin hands firmly in front of her before turning her gaze to Arthur.

"Mylord..." The tone of her voice hovered exactly on the edge between respectful and reprimanding. "...Sir Lancelot should not overexert himself yet. And that _includes _shouting. Might I suggest leaving whatever it was you were discussing to a later date?"

Arthur nodded slightly, his expression carefully blank, and left the room without another word. The silence he left behind was as choking as the smoke from a tar-fed fire.

Marian cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious once more. The room really was tiny, and she felt as if the heat from the knight's body, now once more close to her, must surely burn her if she got any closer.

Lancelot did not look at her, even as she went over to the window, cast a brief look outside into the raging storm and closed the shutters.

Only then did she turn back towards Lancelot, finally noticing the way his lips were trembling slightly, and reached out to place her fingertips gently on his cheek.

He pulled back at once, as though startled by the fact that she was still in the room, and stared at her, his black eyes unfathomable, like twin pools of liquid night.

"You're freezing..." she whispered.

Later, he would not be able to tell what made him do it. Marian was not the sort of voluptuous wanton he normally spent his nights with, she was too thin, frail, like a young bird. Her eyes were too big, her body did nothing to entice the male fantasy.  
>And yet... she was there, warm and real, and -while not beautiful- distinctly female. The scent of medicinal herbs clung to her, her hair looked soft in the dim light and her eyes were fixed upon him, filled with flattering adoration. Dimly he recalled what she had whispered to him while she had thought him unconscious, remembered how her tentative touches had become innocent caresses, how she had sunk her fingers into his hair... Perhaps that was it, or perhaps he simply hungered for a woman in order to force the image of <em>her<em> from his mind...

Either way, he could not really tell. He simply grasped her hand as she made to pull it away from his skin and pressed his lips to her palm. She gasped slightly, her eyes widening even further, but she did not resist as he got up and laid one hand gently on her neck.

There was something in her eyes, an unconscious pleading for him to spare her, perhaps, a kind of fear he could not put a name to.

He ignored it, slung his free arm around her narrow waist, bent his head down and kissed her.

She tensed, went utterly still for the span of a heartbeat, before her arms closed around his neck and her mouth opened beneath his.

His tongue swept past her lips and he pressed her tighter to his body as the kiss became more insistent. She moaned against his lips, a helpless little sound, but made no move to pull away, following him obediently as he steered her backwards and down onto the bed. Only then did he break the kiss, ignoring the pain in his chest as his hand trailed down her body to gather the hem of her skirt... and also ignoring the voice in the back of his head that was screaming at him _This is wrong! This is wrong! This is wrong! _

_...to be continued..._


	5. Chapter 4

Now we are home

_Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed and/or has this story on alert. Please keep reviewing, it makes my day to hear from you!_

Chapter 4

Marian's head was spinning violently and her breath was coming in short, erratic bursts. Lancelot's lips on hers made her feel drunker than too much wine, his cold, calloused fingers on her feverish skin made her tremble and arch upwards into his touch and his scent -leather, smoke, something distinctly _him_- was intoxicating. She clung to him like a drowning person would to a piece of driftwood, clenching her eyes shut and desperately trying not to think further than that very moment.

Suddenly, Lancelot stiffened above her, let go of her skirt, which he had already lifted past her knees, and scooted back as if scalded.

She blinked, utterly confused, and felt shame flush her face.

"What... what's wrong?" she asked, tugging her dress down again, once more self-conscious. The knight kept his face averted as he stood up gingerly, one hand pressed to his chest, where she could see the outline of the bandage underneath his black shirt.

"Are you hurt?" she pressed on, when he did not answer, her hands now hurriedly smoothing down her tangled hair.

Lancelot gave a short, barking laugh, a sound that was utterly devoid of humor, before shaking his head. He did look at her then, finally, his gaze filled with pity and remorse at the same time.

"You should go," he told her, his normally pleasant voice gruff for once. "I'm sorry... Marian, wasn't it?"

Marian stared at him and wanted to die. Never, in her whole life, had she felt so utterly stupid and so very humiliated. A memory came back to haunt her, the memory of the first time she had ever touched his hair. _Your hands are soft... Guenevere... _

She stood up quickly and staggered towards the door. She barely made it outside without bursting into tears in front of him. As it was, she only just managed to make it into her bed, tugging the covers over her head, before her eyes spilled over with emotion and she bit down hard on her sleeve to stop herself from sobbing loudly like a disappointed child.

OooOooO

Rhian had watched from the window how her father and two strong servants had carried Tristan out into the courtyard, laid him into a water trough and poured buckets upon buckets of ice cold water onto his limp form. He had shivered violently, his whole body jerking with forceful tremors, and her heart had broken a little more to see him suffer as he did.

After many such showers with cold water, they had carried him back inside, dried him off and put him in Gweir's own bedchamber, since it was the only one with a fireplace. They buried him under a heap of blankets, lit the fire in the hearth and retreated. Nothing to to but wait. _Kill or cure._

After they had left, Rhian crept into the chamber, a single candle in hand. The shutters of the window were shut tightly against the cold and the room was filled with the scent of the fire, herbs and the fresh straw of the mattress.

Tristan looked alarmingly thin amidst the tangle of blankets and someone had taken the trouble to remove his braids and brush his hair. Marian, probably. She came by almost as often as Rhian herself, looking after Tristan with the innocent devotion of a younger sister. They had never spoken of it, but Rhian knew that her sister did it for her, transferring her affection for her sister quite easily onto the man her sister loved. It truly was endearing.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Rhian set the candle down on the bedside table and began to undo the laces of her gown, stripping down to her chemise. She knew, that the only people likely to enter the room were her father and her sister, and to them, she would be able to explain her actions.

Nostalgic memories of past days filled her, as she slipped beneath the covers and curled up against Tristan's body. They had never actually spent the entire night together, it had been too much of a risk, but sometimes, they had been able to steal away together, spending whole afternoons lying by the side of a small creek, arms around each other, his cloak shielding them from the damp earth. They had not spoken about anything during those hours, had simply basked in each others presence.

Rhian pressed herself against his side, curled an arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulders. Once more, she found herself praying. If she could only give him of her strength, dear God, she would. Anything, really, to keep him alive. She pressed her lips to the side of his neck and wept, wept until there were no more tears to cry and she fell asleep, without knowing that in the next room, her sister, too, was crying herself to sleep.

OooOooO

Warmth and happiness were the first two sensations she felt when sleep finally relinquished its hold on her, albeit reluctantly. Her dreams had been pleasant, filled with images of better days and she felt vaguely regretful about waking up. Something had woken her, however, and she was not sure what it had been.

She opened her eyes and blinked to dispel the hazy residue of sleep. There was a hand in her hair, caressing her scalp gently, and warm, chapped lips were pressed to her forehead, accompanied by the tickle of a beard.

Beneath her cheek was the rhythmic thumping of a sturdy heartbeat, her head lying pillowed on the chest of a knight. A knight who was very much alive.

Rhian propped herself up quickly, her eyes wide, drinking in the sight before her.

Tristan was smiling at her. It was a tired smile, a mere quirk of one corner of his mouth amid the tangle of his beard, but it was a smile, nonetheless. His hazel eyes were alight and the intensity of his gaze was enough to make her shiver. His right hand, which had been petting her hair just a moment ago, settled on her hip.

And Rhian sank into his embrace and pressed her lips to his. She could feel him grin against her mouth before he tilted his head slightly to the side and allowed the kiss to deepen. He was alive, really and truly alive, and all else could wait for a few more moments. Reality, in which she was a married woman and this could never, ever happen again, simply had to wait.

OooOooO

"Don't call anyone just yet."

Lazy fingers were idly drawing circles on her back, toying a little with the fabric of her chemise or twirling one strand of her magnificent hair. Rhian smiled at him fondly and kissed his cheek.

"You're obviously feeling much better."

He gave an affirmative grunt, as much of a reaction as one could expect from Tristan, and tightened his arms around her again. She put her head back on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Never, in the past years, had she felt this at home.

"They are all staying, you know. Your brothers," she told him softly and felt him shrug.

"Figured as much. Arthur was born for this country."

They fell silent again. Neither wished to talk of what it would mean for _them, _if there was such a thing. After a few more indulgent moments, Rhian took a deep breath and extricated herself from his embrace. He frowned, but let her go without comment. She dressed in silence, with him watching her every move with his hawk-like eyes, with the result that she felt more naked with her dress on than she had felt wearing only her chemise. He did not speak again until she turned towards the door, fingers already touching the handle.

"Marry me."

She froze. For a few moments, all she could hear was her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

"You know I can't," she answered finally, the words almost choking her. She turned to face him, the agony she felt clearly written in her eyes. "I am already married."

He did not lose his calm expression, but something flashed in his eyes, like a short burst of flame. It frightened her, this expression.

Tristan had never looked more peaceful and helpless than he did right then, weak and injured in a bed, without weapons or armor, but the way his eyes rested on her was anything but innocent, and for the very first time she felt a twinge of fear when she looked at him. His gaze sent a very clear message. _Mine._

"I let you go once, Rhian..." Her name was like honey on his tongue, spoken with that soft accent of his. " ...and I don't make a habit of repeating my mistakes."

OooOooO

Lancelot stood at the window and looked out into the pewter gray morning. The storm had exhausted itself over the course of the night, leaving only a thick fog behind that clouded the hills in translucent white.

He shivered slightly and crossed his arms in front of his chest. There was a dull ache behind his temple and there was a bad taste in his mouth. The water in the jug on the table was stale and he did not expect anyone to...

He had not even finished that thought when the door opened and Marian entered, carrying his breakfast on tray.

She was pale, her red-rimmed eyes proof of a night spent crying. As she crept past him and set the tray down on the table, she avoided looking at him at all cost.

He watched her quietly, while she busied herself with his breakfast, and tried to think of something to say. If he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit that she did stir something within him. Perhaps it was simply that slight -albeit very slight- resemblance to her, to Guinevere_, _whom he could not forget ever since he had seen her washing herself on that blasted trip back to the wall, but really, the physical similarities extended no further than the slight build and the color of their hair. Guinevere was a strong woman, a warrior and a queen even now, before receiving her crown, whereas Marian hardly ever stepped from her more beautiful sister's shadow, with the result that most people did not even know her name.

Having finished setting down his breakfast and straightening the blankets on the bed, Marian turned to leave, but Lancelot stepped in front of her quickly, barring the way out.

"Marian, wait," he begged her, "at least allow me to apologize. Or is this how you want things to be between us?"  
>He smiled at her, that warm, charming smile that had won women over for years. And while he might have developed a reputation as something of a scoundrel, he would never take advantage of an innocent girl like Gweir's youngest.<p>

This time, however, it was an effort wasted. Marian pursed her lips tightly and shot him a look that was equal parts fear and resentment.

"There is nothing between us, Sir. And even if there were, it is what you made it." She squeezed past him, her dark dress and hair brushing his side like a fleeting caress. At the door, she turned around and addressed him once more, the smallest smirk curling her lip.

"You'll be glad to know that, once my father has seen to you once more, you will be free to leave. You are recovered enough and need no longer take up space in our home. Besides...," the smirk grew a little wider, her eyes just a little colder, "you'll want to be up and about for Lord Arthur's wedding to Lady Guinevere tomorrow, won't you?"

As the door swung shut behind her, Lancelot had to admit to himself that he had underestimated her. That last comment had, apart from hitting home like a punch in the gut, proven that Marian was a lot more observant than he'd thought.

_...to be continued..._


	6. Chapter 5

o

Now we are home

_A.N.: Not much action in this one, forgive me. But we'll pick up the pace in the next couple of chapters. Once again, I have to apologize for the long wait. We had a bit of a scare in my family, my father was in the hospital and they thought it might be something really bad... Anyway, I hope I'll be able to update quicker from now on. _

Chapter Five

The air was as clear as polished glass, the sky a wide expanse of blue, with merely a few wispy tufts of cloud here and there. After the storm had beaten the land into submission two nights ago, the weather now reflected the peaceful atmosphere within the fortress of Badon Hill. The scent of delicious food, pastry and roasted meat, fresh bread and warm wine, permeated the air and peals of laughter, music and merrymaking rode on the soft currents of wind as if carried by butterfly wings.

Through the narrow window, Lancelot observed the revelers below him in the courtyard, watched them dance and sing and feast and felt a profound relief that Arthur had not made him stay.

Tristan, still in bed and propped up on pillows, but at least back in his own chamber, eyed his brother in arms with a mocking little smile.

Lancelot had shown up a short while ago, bearing a portion of the feast and claiming to want to keep Tristan company, who was still too unwell to attend the festivities in person. His company, however, had not proven to be very entertaining. He spoke even less than Tristan himself, offering only monosyllabic answers or none at all, staring out of the window with an expression of badly concealed anger and occasionally grinding his teeth. He had hardly touched the food he'd brought, much to the delight of Tristan, whose appetite had already returned in full.

"You look as if you want the sky to open up and rain piss on that wedding," the scout observed dryly, as the silence wore on. Lancelot finally turned from the window and shot him a glare which failed to impress Tristan in the slightest. Sighing deeply, he relented and stood by the other knight's bedside again.

"Maybe," he admitted, "not that raining piss would change anything. He's besotted with her. And she with him."

That much had been made abundantly clear to him on this day. While Guinevere had been happy to see him up and about, greeting him with a genuine smile and a few warm words, her eyes had always strayed back to her betrothed, lighting up whenever she saw him. Arthur himself had always hovered close to his bride's side, an arm curled around her waist, a hand holding hers... Lancelot could not help but wonder if his friend and commander might know of his feelings for the future queen. And that, in turn, made him wonder what exactly those feelings were.

"And is that really what bothers you?" Tristan asked shrewdly, proving once more that his keen eye was not only of use on the battlefield. When Lancelot had shown up at his door, for instance, it had taken him about half a minute to discern that it was not just brotherly concern that had guided his footsteps, but also the desire to be as far away as possible from the woman he loved marrying his best friend.

OooOooO

Marian, too, had left the festivities as soon as she could without attracting her father's disapproving glare. Even on a good day, she was not overly fond of celebrations and lots of people in varying degrees of drunkenness and, given the foul mood she found herself in after her encounter with Sir Lancelot, she knew she would not be able to hold a decent conversation with anyone without insulting them at some point.

Instead, she had retreated to the healing rooms and resumed packing. The people who were to accompany Arthur to Camelot, Gweir among them, of course, had to be ready to travel in two days. It was not a long time to pack an entire life into bags and boxes, Marian thought grimly, as she wrapped earthenware jugs in blankets to keep them safe. Of course, no one had bothered to ask her opinion on this relocation. Her father had happily agreed when Arthur had approached him, flattered by the new king's insistence that his healing skills were indispensable. And of course, his daughter would come with him. It would not do for an unmarried woman to stay anywhere alone, and since there was no husband in sight for young Marian, she would still be ruled by her father.

She swore under her breath as she flung bandages and blankets into a basket with unnecessary vehemence, so focused on hating everything around her that she did not hear the sound of the door opening or the approaching footsteps.

Only after Rhian cleared her throat audibly did Marian turn around. It struck anew her how very beautiful her sister was. Her curly hair was only just tamed by colorful ribbons and a wooden comb, her dress of green and fawn linen swirled around her taut body, promising everything and yet revealing nothing at all. Only her expression left something to be desired, for she looked at her younger sister with intense disapproval.

"Honestly, I do not know what is the matter with you!" she reprimanded her harshly. "Is that or is it not Sir Tristan's tea I just found nearly cold on the mantelpiece? You promised to take it to him, Marian!"

Marian went pale and slapped a hand to her forehead. She had indeed told her sister she would take care of it, since she was not in the mood for the festivities, and she had, quite apparently, forgotten.

"Now, are you going to take it to him, or do I have to?" Rhian went on, putting her hands on her hips and tapping her foot slightly. For a young woman, she gave a very credible impression of a world-weary crone.

Marian grinned sightly and stuck her tongue out at her sister.

"Don't worry, highness, you won't have to risk getting it on your dress. Go and dance with Sir Galahad or Sir Gawain, before you have to go home and remember that you're married and dull."

Ordinarily, Rhian would have laughed and pulled her sister's hair, or responded with some equally cheeky remark. Today, however, the joke fell flat and Rhian looked as if she had just bitten into a rotten piece of fruit. Her glare should have been enough to make Marian wither and die, just before she spun on her heel and hurried out of the room without another word.

The younger woman sighed deeply, her brief spell of good spirits evaporated just like that. Grumbling under her breath once more, the curses now directed at herself, she grabbed the cup of tea from its perch and, deciding that it was still just warm enough to be drinkable, left the healing rooms.

OooOooO

The sun had begun to set, bleeding red onto the clear blue sky and bathing the British isle in soft golden light. It was still cold, the wind biting into every bit of exposed skin and cutting through clothes with the ease of a well-wielded broadsword.

Marian shivered, drawing her threadbare cloak tighter around her shoulders and clutching the cup of tea closer to her body.

She gave the festivities a wide berth, entering the main building through a side door. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Sir Gawain, clearly drunk, despite the fact that it was not even dark yet, leading a giggling girl down the dusty road to the stables.

The soft leather of her shoes hardly made any sound at all as she padded along the stone corridor and up a narrow staircase. It was almost dark here, where there were no windows to allow any of the waning daylight into the building and only a few guttering torches spilled pools of light around their brackets.

Three doors to the right was Sir Tristan's chamber, although that really was too grand a name for something that was basically a hole in the wall.

Marian knocked on the door, mindful of the brimming cup in her hand, and opened the door carefully after Sir Tristan's hoarse voice had called for her to enter.

The air in the room was colder than it was in the corridor and the scent of candle smoke and leather assaulted the senses. Marian's gaze went quickly through the room, lingering for a moment on the pile of visibly unclean clothes in the corner and, in contrast, the sparkling clean sword sitting on the low table beside it, skirted over the magnificent set of Sarmatian battle armor on its stand, before coming to rest on the bed.

Seeing Lancelot standing there gave her such a bad start that tea spilled over her hands and stained the front of her dress. The resulting frown on her face was only matched by the one on his.

Granting him nothing but the briefest nod as greeting, she turned her gaze resolutely to Tristan, who was eying them both, though his expression betrayed no reaction.

"Good evening, Sir," she greeted politely, slightly unnerved by his unreadable eyes, and handed him the cup, "and my apologies for not coming sooner."

Tristan, just like Lancelot, was much less intimidating when he was asleep. The two of them in one room made the hair at the back of her neck stand up for some reason, although she knew they would never hurt her. Intentionally, anyway.

The knight took the cup from her without comment, sipped some of the lukewarm tea and grimaced.

"That's disgusting," he stated flatly. Marian grinned slightly and shrugged.

"Can't be helped, Sir, sorry. My father will be by tomorrow to change your bandages. Anything else I can do for you?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "You're the healer's daughter, not some serving girl."

She shrugged again. "It still doesn't hurt to be friendly. Have a good night, Sir." She turned and found herself being glared at by Lancelot, who had ignored her up to that point and, catching her looking at him, turned away once more.

Marian felt her face go pale and her fingers started to tremble, as they always did when she was angry. Common sense told her to simply remain silent, but her pride, perhaps not her most pronounced attribute, but there nonetheless, could not abide this new rudeness.

"I'll have you know, Sir," she told the dark knight's back quietly, "that _I_ did nothing wrong. If you must feel angry with someone, I suggest a looking glass."

She had hurried through the door, shutting it behind her in haste, before he had finished turning around to look at her, once more surprised at the unanticipated show of boldness.

Tristan regarded him thoughtfully while tipping the rest of the herbal concoction out of the cup onto the floor. Lancelot caught his gaze and shook his head.

"I hate this bloody island."

The scout laughed quietly and saluted him with the now empty cup.  
>"Don't say that. After all, now that Arthur is king, you will be... what was it again? First Knight and seneschal."<p>

Lancelot grimaced. "A grand title. Will it feed my horse?"

_...to be continued..._


	7. Chapter 6

Now we are home

_Thanks to all those who have me on alert and, of course, to my reviewers, especially Binne Inksong. I hope all of you enjoy this chapter. Please review! _

Chapter Six

The fortress of Camelot was a magnificent sight even from a distance. Tall and proud it rose on top of a steep hill, overlooking the little village of Camlann sprawled at its feet.

A winding path led up the hillside, dusty on sunny days and a veritable river of mud whenever it rained.

The fortress' wall was made of solid stone, crowned by wooden battlements with a single watchtower rising over the massive gate and another on each corner. Overlooking all that was the main building, a hulking structure of indeterminable age. It looked a lot less Roman than the fortress of Badon Hill had, and, befitting its new king, seemed more of a blend between Roman and British architecture.

Two months had passed since King Arthur, proclaimed and crowned by Merlin and the his council of tribe leaders, and his men had taken up residence at the fortress. The people of Camlann had regarded them with a certain distrust at first, unsure of whether or not they should trust this Roman who had just like that declared himself king of Britain, but within a month, they were won over.

King Arthur demanded no more than he was due as liege lord of Camelot, but his firm hand and wisely dispensed justice soon had a calming affect on the village.

A flock of women descended on the fortress during the first week, cleaning it from top to bottom, casting out rats and other vermin and dispelling the dust and staleness Camelot had accumulated during its vacancy. Next were droves of craftsmen who repaired what needed repairing or fashioned anew what was beyond salvaging. And within the brief span of one month, Camelot had turned from the empty shell of a fort into the castle of king, where everyone had a decent bed and a living space befitting their rank.

Riders were sent to every corner of the isle to proclaim Arthur king of Britain, each one of them carrying a banner, so new its colors gleamed in the sunlight. It was the same banner that flew over the gate of Camelot, caught high in the morning breeze, telling all who went past that the king residing here was a man to be reckoned with: a red dragon on white.

OooOooO

"Why exactly did it have to be a dragon?"

Lancelot examined the fluttering banner with a crooked little smile. He and Arthur stood next to the training area, where Gawain and Bors were sparring.

The king, who had been concentrating on the two fighting knights, turned to Lancelot and frowned for a moment in confusion, before he saw what his knight was looking at.

"Oh... Well, as you know, it was a gift from Merlin. And he claims the people of Britain will be more likely to unite beneath the banner of the Pendragon than, say, the cross of the Holy Roman Church."

Lancelot gave a rather undignified snort. "Even I would not fight for you with the bloody cross flying over my head. Fine, the dragon it is. And success proves Merlin right, after all."

Arthur nodded and shrugged at the same time. Not many riders were back from their errands, yet those who had returned brought with them the assurances of loyalty from village leaders and Roman lords who had chosen not to return to their homeland when the roman army had left. But there were bound to be some who objected to the perceived foreigner calling himself king, tribe leaders who saw any rule above their own as oppression. And then there were the bands of Saxons roaming the British countryside. Those men had survived the battle of Badon Hill and had gathered into small parties of bandits, terrorizing the roads and making it unsafe for anyone but an armed patrol to travel the lonelier paths of Britain.

Hunting down those men was a main goal of the new king, once his rule had been somewhat established.

Soft laughter and the sound of clear, female voices tore both men from their musings and made them look around.

Guinevere and a small number of her friends were ambling past, Gweir's daughter Marian among them. The new queen did not distinguish between noble and commoner when choosing her friends, she simply insisted that the ladies keeping her company were interested in more than embroidery.

They were quietly talking among themselves, laughing and giggling now and again. Arthur watched them with a fond smile until they turned a corner.

"You look happy," Lancelot observed, careful to keep the bitterness in his voice to a minimum.

"I am," the king admitted, a hint of surprise at his own good fortune audible in the deep timbre of his voice. "Married life is more pleasant than I ever would have guessed." He shot him a sideways glance. "You should try it, you know. Really. You should get married."

Lancelot pulled a grimace as if he had been punched in the gut. "Arthur... You're my king now, so I won't speak my mind."

Behind them, Galahad was laughingly cheering for Bors, who had abandoned all weapons and had gripped Gawain in a headlock.

Arthur regarded his knight intently for a moment, before placing a hand on his shoulder and walking a few paces with him, a little further away from the everyday hustle and bustle of the developing fortress.

"Has something changed between us, Lancelot? Haven't you always spoken your mind to me, you, who knows me better than anyone?"

"True," the knight agreed, "but back then, you were my commander, not my king, and no one would fault me for calling you an idiot."

"And no one would fault you now."

"Fine. Arthur, you're being an idiot."

They looked at each other and burst out laughing at the exact same time.

OooOooO

Rhian sat on a stool by the window, a half-finished shirt of Eadwig's on her lap, and stared blankly through the room. She had never felt less at home in this house, which she called her home ever since her wedding day.

Right at that moment, she was very grateful that Eadwig had built them this house in the village and had not insisted that they live in the mill by the river, since it meant that she was alone while he was working. The women she, as the midwife, had to tend to lived in the village, she had argued, and especially during the winter, life or death for a mother or a newborn child could depend on how long it took for help to get to them. Eadwig had consented, as he usually did, without a single word of protest. Indeed, there was nothing he would not do for his beautiful wife.

Slightly disgusted with herself, Rhian tossed the shirt onto the table and got up. She brushed her hands down her front, smoothing her dress and trying in vain to suppress the trembling of her fingers. Everything she had kept bottled up for the past three years came flooding back to her in a wave of emotion. She remembered everyone of Tristan's kisses, his fingers on her skin, his eyes when they made love, his voice, low and soft in her ear, as she drifted off to sleep in his arms on a sunny afternoon, hidden away in the shade of a weeping willow by the side of a river...

The door closed with a soft thud and Rhian had to bite her lip to stop a frightened shriek. There, as if summoned by the power of her love, stood Tristan himself, hazel eyes looking at her and beyond, as they always did, face half hidden behind the braids and strands of his unruly hair and the faint smirk on his lips disguised by his beard.

Rhian frowned.

"Just what are you doing here? What if people saw you? What if Eadwig comes home?"

Tristan waved her protests aside with a lazy flick of his hand and stalked towards her, a distinctly predatory quality to his movements.

"Your husband won't be home till nightfall," he answered calmly, "and nobody saw me."

It was probably true, Rhian knew. Tristan could be as silent and invisible as a shadow, even in broad daylight. Still, she swatted at his hands as he tried to put his arms around her.

"Stop that!" she told him sharply. "I am married, and not to you! You can't just come in here and..."

"Oh, can't I?" he interrupted, pulled her resolutely into his arms and silenced any answer she might have had with a demanding kiss.

OooOooO

Even the sunsets here at Camelot were different than they had been at the Wall. Ordinarily, Lancelot was not the type to wax poetic about the beauty of the setting sun, unless it might entice a willing girl to his bed, but even he had to admit that there was something quite stirring about the view from the western watchtower. It reminded him a little of home, the way he had described it to Guinevere.

_...the sky... bigger than you can imagine... _

He slung the fur-lined cloak over one shoulder, propped his elbows onto the wooden balustrade and continued to watch the sun dip ever lower, already half sunk behind the thicket of trees on the horizon, its last rays casting glittering reflections onto the calm surface of the river that lay like a silver ribbon a short distance from Camlann.

Lancelot knew that some people were wondering about him, his brothers certainly among them. He had changed ever since their fateful mission north a few months ago, but then, so had all of them, all of Britain, even. But perhaps his change was more pronounced than theirs. He kept to himself most evenings, refusing to join his friends for a drink, he ignored the advances of most women, though they still came.

The dark knight sighed and shook his head. He was not in the mood to ponder the depths of his own soul. Neither was he in the mood for company, which was why he refused to turn around and acknowledge the intruder into this quiet time when he heard the approaching footsteps.

"I was told I'd find you here," Guinevere remarked softly and came to stand next to him, laying her delicate hands onto the balustrade. "It really is quite beautiful."

Lancelot gave an affirmative grunt. "Heaven, you once called it. I remember."

She looked at him, a slight smile on her lips. Her impossibly long lashes cast fragile shadows onto her high cheekbones and the dim light of the setting sun made her skin gleam like bronze.

"And you called it hell," she said, "and yet you stayed. You must have a reason for choosing Britain as your home, after all."

He turned his back on the beautiful view, crossing his arms in front of his chest and and staring instead at the training ground, now abandoned and muddy.

"This is not home," he answered at length, "but the knights... I suppose they are more family to me than any blood relatives I might find or might not find in Sarmatia. Does that answer your question... my lady?"

The queen smiled impishly, quite obviously aware of the fact that he disliked the topic of their discussion.

"Almost," she conceded. "You once told me that you had no right to your own sons. But now this is your home, whether you call it that or not, and your future is entirely different than you once thought it might be. That being the case, you should reconsider that attitude."

Again, he felt like throwing something, choosing instead not to answer. The dark look he directed at her left the slender woman totally unimpressed, however.

"How did you know I was here, anyway?" he asked, seeking to steer the conversation back into safer waters. "My lady," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Marian saw you come up here," Guinevere explained. "Gweir's daughter."

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "Meddlesome child."

"Indeed," the queen agreed, a slight edge to her voice. "She simply had to meddle when you lay bleeding in front of her, stuck like a pig on a roast. Maybe she should have left that bolt in your chest and spared you all that trouble of living."

Leaving a totally flabbergasted Lancelot behind, Queen Guinevere swept towards the staircase.

"But... I thought... Gweir had...," the knight sputtered behind her.

She paused and looked back at him over her shoulder, the very picture of grace and regal bearing.

"Sometimes," she told him coldly, "you men should just leave the thinking to your womenfolk."

_...to be continued... _


	8. Chapter 7

Now we are home

_Again, thanks very much to my reviewers! I love to hear from you! Please keep reviewing, it makes my day. Expect the next update in about two days... tomorrow, if my time allows. _

Chapter Seven

Rhian stretched lazily and fought against the urge to just roll over, snuggle up to the warm body next to her and fall asleep. Tristan had one arm folded behind his head, the other one curled around her shoulders. His calloused fingertips played with her hair and tickled her skin.

Shame, however, was quickly overriding pleasure. No matter what her own personal feelings might be, she had made a promise to Eadwig three years ago, and he did not deserve this betrayal.

Quickly, she disentangled herself from Tristan's embrace and grabbed her chemise and her dress from the floor, where they had been carelessly flung a while ago. She pulled on her clothes and hastily combed her fingers through her hair.

Behind her, the scout yawned widely and, catching the hem of her skirts, tugged her back towards the bed.

"Stop it," she protested and yanked the fabric out of his fingers. "Get dressed, please."  
>He cocked an eyebrow and smiled.<p>

"It's a little late for modesty, don't you think?"

Rhian felt her face flush and bit her lip in annoyance.  
>"It was a mistake. One I will not repeat."<p>

Her words hung in the air for a moment. The crackling of the hearth and the rustling of her garments were the only sounds, until Tristan shifted on the bed and got to his feet, apparently not bothered by his own nakedness.

Rhian had to avert her eyes quickly, or her good intentions of keeping this a one-time mistakes would go out the window. He got dressed slowly, the muscles rippling beneath his skin. Rhian found herself looking anyway, her gaze lingering on the multitude of scars on his torso. Almost without her being aware of it, her hand lifted to his body and traced one of the scar ridges with her fingertips.

He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips.

"A mistake you won't repeat, eh?" He smirked at her and she withdrew her hand quickly.

"You don't love your husband, Rhian," he went on calmly, pulled the tunic over his head and started tying the laces, "and besides, you're mine. If you hadn't run away..."

"If you'd married me, I wouldn't have run away!" she interrupted hotly.

He put his arms around her and pulled her close until she was flush against his body. His eyes alone were enough to let her know that he would not be letting this go and that he considered any further words an effort wasted.

"Whatever you do..." she said, her voice now tired and weak, "don't hurt Eadwig. Please, he is a good man and he should not have to suffer for my mistake."

Tristan frowned a little, but shrugged his shoulders.

"If it means that much to you, I will do nothing to hurt him. I promise."

She stood on her toes and kissed him, her fingers deftly undoing the laces of his tunic again.

After he had left and the sun had set beyond the horizon, Rhian lay awake in bed, listening to the faint sounds of the night. Sleep fled her.

Eadwig came home late, the entire village had quieted down and the sound of Rhian's own heartbeat had become deafening to her ears. He moved quietly and cautiously, assuming she was asleep and trying not to wake her up.

Shame and guilt coiled in Rhian's stomach as she watched him. Eadwig was not at all bad looking, she had to admit. He was a little shorter than Tristan, but his shoulders were broad, his posture straight and proud. He had sleek dark hair that was just long enough to touch his shoulders, a short beard that was actually softer than it looked and kind, friendly brown eyes. His voice was deep and soothing, his hands were rough from work, but knew how to be gentle. He had an infectious smile and a hearty laugh.

They had not spoken since morning, and she knew he would have been glad for a little conversation after the long day's work, but she made no sound as he got into bed next to her and settled down for the night. She knew he would not try to wake her. That was another reason why it had been nearly impossible for her to resist Tristan's advances. They had not fought, or even argued, they were always friendly with each other.

Yet Eadwig had not touched his beautiful wife in bed for almost a year.

OooOooO

The fortress lay still and silent in the mist when Tristan returned from his early morning patrol ride. The sun had barely shown beyond the hills, the dim light was watery and faint and hardly any noises could be heard through the haze of sleepy stillness.

He directed his mare to the stables, dismounted and proceeded to take off saddle and bridle. There was no need for him to tie the horse to the hitching rail. The mare would never run from him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl again and shook his head, smiling slightly. She was always here, every morning, and had been for the past few weeks.

"I don't bite, you know," he told her calmly over his shoulder and saw her start. Then she slowly inched closer, her hands fisted in the folds of her grey skirts. He couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her. She had grown up in the shadow of her more beautiful sister and now that said sister was married and lived apart from them, she had only moved into the shadow of the more beautiful Queen Guinevere. It was probably pity and the fact that Rhian cared deeply for her little sister that made him speak to her more kindly than was his custom.

"Good morning, Sir," she greeted him quietly, her eyes darting across his face quickly before coming to rest on his horse.

"You can pet her," he answered her unspoken question and watched as she came closer eagerly, yet presented her hand for the horse to sniff at, before gently stroking the mare's sleek neck. The horse huffed contentedly and held still. They spent a few moments in companionable silence, while the scout cleared away saddle and bridle and returned with two currycombs, one of which he tossed to Marian. Still silent, they began to groom the horse together.

"If you ever expect him to notice him, this would be one way of going about it," Tristan remarked after a while. Marian's cheeks flushed a deep scarlet and she pretended to examine the horse's mane closely to avoid meeting his gaze.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

Tristan found himself grinning.

"Come on. I know it is not me you're waiting for every morning. I'm just not as blind as Lancelot."

Her face darkened another few nuances and she stuttered for a moment before falling silent once more. He was right, after all. Quite by accident, she had discovered that Lancelot went riding every morning, just after the fortress was starting to wake up, and she had hidden around the corner and watched, before returning home swiftly and starting breakfast, without ever saying a word about it to anyone, not even Rhian.

She could not even explain it to herself, since it was simply impossible for her to even say it out loud: She had fallen for the arrogant, flirtatious and short-tempered knight. She could not shake the memory of their one kiss, the feel of his lips on hers and sometimes, she found herself wishing he had not stopped himself back then. Those were thoughts she only entertained in the dead of night or during the brief hours of the morning before her father woke and she could still pretend everything was fine.

Tristan had watched the emotions play out on her face, but did not press her further. Why should he, when there was nothing left to be said. He simply led the horse into the stables and left Marian to her thoughts.

OooOooO

Lancelot's head was pounding. After his conversation with Guinevere, he had not been able to fall asleep for a long time and his sleep had been plagued with confusing dreams about his homeland, or what he remembered of it. For a short moment, he had considered skipping his morning ride and sleeping a few hours more, but the prospect of feeling the cool wind on his face and having it clear his head was too tempting.

As he stepped outside, the chilly air prickled on his skin and the breeze tousled his hair. It was an invigorating feeling. He closed his eyes, tilted his faces back and felt his head clear. Maybe she had been right. He had always dreamed of returning home one day, of fulfilling the promise he had made his parents, but like any knight, he had expected to die during his term of service and freedom, while desirable, had always been a foreign concept.

But everything had changed overnight, with Arthur becoming king and bringing them here... He allowed his eyes to wander for a moment. Really, Camelot was a beautiful place, strong and bright, not just a fortress, but a place to live, to call home.

Home.

The word felt strange on his tongue, like a foreign flavor, unfamiliar, but not bad. Never had he expected to apply it to Britain, and he was not quite ready to do so yet, not for the whole island, anyway. But Camelot could be home, he supposed, if just a few more things fell into place.

After a few moments, he continued on to the stables.

Marian sat on a low bench in front of the building, elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. Time had somehow flown, the tranquility of the early morning almost lulling her back to sleep. She had planned to leave before Lancelot came and to stop this lunacy once and for all, but she couldn't find it in herself to care when the sound of approaching footsteps told her that it was too late to get away. Maybe he would simply ignore her, as they had ignored each other whenever they had met over the course of the past two months.

"Marian?"

Or maybe not.

She opened her eyes in surprise and looked at him, taking in his appearance and just barely suppressing a sigh. The clear morning light played around his silhouette, casting soft reflexes on his glossy curls and making his dark eyes seem almost black. His breath, like hers, showed up as white puffs of vapor in the cool air.

Marian tugged on the folds of her skirt nervously.

"Good morning, Sir," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. To her utter shock, he sat down next to her, his knee just a short distance away from hers. She felt his eyes on her as if they were burning holes into her skin and a sharp and entirely unbidden thrill of excitement crept up her spine at his sudden proximity.

"I'm glad I find you here," he told her softly, "Now I finally get to apologize. I regret what happened between us that day and if I could change what happened, I would. Will you accept my apology?"

And just like that, her excitement and giddiness evaporated, like a snowflake in summer. He _regretted _it. One more moment to add to her collection of humiliating experiences, she mused, while forcing a smile onto her face.

"Of course, Sir. Really, it was silly of me to hold a grudge this long." It was amazing how chipper she could sound, while, at the same time, she wanted to curl up and cry like a baby.

His answering smile was one of relief and she felt the tension seep from his posture.

"Besides," he went on brightly, "I hear that I have to thank you. You never told me that I owed you my life, Lady Marian."

She got to her feet, her smile almost causing her toothache.

"Please, Sir, don't call me that. There really is no need to thank me. I am a healer, and I did what every other healer would have done."

He rose as well, put one hand to his chest and bowed slightly, giving her a flirtatious little wink.

"I'd like to thank you anyway. And I hope we can make a new start of it. Friends?"

He held out his hand and Marian stared at it for a moment, almost dumbstruck. The sick feeling in her stomach intensified, as she placed her hand in his and shook it.

"Friends."

_...to be continued..._


	9. Chapter 8

Now we are home

_Another big thank you to all my readers and especially my reviewers! Thank you for your kind words. Binne, hearing from you is always a delight. ;)  
><em>

_Disclaimer: There's a section in this chapter borrowed from the anonymous 13__th__ century poem "I am Taliesin". Just so you know... that bit is not by me. Look for that poem on YouTube to hear it recited in Welsh by Ioan Gruffudd. It's beautiful!_

Chapter Eight

There were not that many men under arms in Camelot, at least not compared to the many soldiers there had been at the fortress of Badon. There were the knights, a number of Roman soldiers who had, after hearing that Arthur Castus remained in Britain, returned from the ports to swear their allegiance to him, much to the Bishop's chagrin, and a number of Picts, who had been sent by Merlin. That last group was comparatively small in numbers, but effective nonetheless. And it was a testament to the spirit of unity King Arthur inspired, that Picts, Romans and Sarmatians lived in relative harmony within one fortress, occasional bickering aside.

But underneath all that optimism and spirit, there was a constant tension. Not all riders had yet returned from their mission of spreading the word about Arthur's coronation and those that had returned brought not only good news. It was clear to all under arms that the new king's rule would soon be put to the test.

OooOooO

One morning brought with it the first signs of the coming spring. It was not something one could put their finger on, merely a change in the atmosphere. The sun seemed just a little brighter, the air just a tiny bit warmer and one could almost smell life and sunlight on the gentle breeze that teased the banner of the Pendragon into a merry dance. Tufts of clouds were chasing each other across the sky at a snail's pace and the last rest of the past years' snow melted away into glittering puddles.

As if heralded by the good weather and the lightening of spirit, a small group of riders approached Camelot around noon. It was a motley group of five men, excellent horsemen all. The one in front, their leader, from the look of him, sat astride his dark bay stallion with a careless grace that spoke of years of practice.

They rode up to the gate at a swift pace, reigned in their horses and called up to the guards that they wished to present themselves to the king. The gate was flung open a short while later and a man ran to alert Arthur to their presence.

Marian was just crossing the courtyard with her arms full of firewood when she saw them trotting through the gateway, with the king and queen, together with a number of knights, meeting them halfway.

Intrigued, she stopped, deposited her bundle of dry wood at her feet, and watched from a short distance away.

"We seek Arthur Castus, King of Britain," said the rider in front, after pulling his horse to a stop. His voice was deep and calm, and though he did not speak loudly, it carried clear across the courtyard.

Arthur, with Guinevere at his side and flanked by Lancelot and Galahad on the left and Bors and Gawain on the right, looked up at him and smiled politely.

"Then speak, for you have found him," he replied evenly.

The stranger dismounted first, with his companions following suit, and, after appraising him for a brief moment, put his hand on his chest and bowed to the king.

"Greetings, my lord," he said jovially, "I am Cei, son of Hector Vintorius, and these are Lamorak, Bedwyr, Erec and Taliesin. We offer you our swords and our service, King of Britain."

Cei had a friendly, open face that was distinctly Roman. There was mirth in his grey eyes and he wore his hair cropped short, as was Roman custom. The others looked scruffier, their hair was longer, their clothes made of rougher fabric, and Marian would have pegged them as Britons. One could see that none of them were novices in the arts of warfare.

Erec's nose was crooked, broken at least once, and Bedwyr was missing his left hand. The shields they bore on their saddles showed signs of frequent use in combat.

Marian's eyes lingered the longest on the man Cei had introduced last, the one called Taliesin. He was not very tall, shorter, in fact, than the other four, and of slighter build. His jet-black hair tumbled down his back in soft-looking waves, falling to just past his shoulders, and his bright blue eyes observed everything with vivid interest. His narrow face was clean-shaven, and Marian found it impossible to guess his age. He could be anywhere from his early thirties to well into his forties. The barest hint of a smile played around his lips as he watched the ongoing exchange between Cei and the king. As he lifted one hand to pet the horse's neck, the sleeve of his tunic fell back a little and revealed a thin, dark line, circling his wrist once and disappearing down his forearm, like the tattoos most of the Picts had on their skin, including Queen Guinevere.

Marian suddenly became aware of the fact that Taliesin's attention had shifted from Cei and the king. He was now looking directly at her, watching her watching him, and he gave her a flirtatious little wink as she finally met his gaze. Her first impulse was to look away hastily, but then she reconsidered, returned his smile with a little smile of her own and only then did she turn back to observe the ongoing conversation.

King Arthur had welcomed the men warmly and was now gesturing towards the doors of the hall.

"Come, then. Join me and your Queen and tell us more about yourselves. I know your father quite well, Cei..."

They started walking, Bors and Gawain joining them, no doubt expecting a cup of wine in the bargain.

Marian sighed softly in slight disappointment. She was not as nosy as some, but she would have liked to hear more about those newcomers, too. But no doubt some of Guinevere's ladies were already in the hall and would fill her in later.

She picked up her bundle of firewood again and started walking. After a few paces, however, she was stopped again by a man's voice calling out to her.

"Wait, fair lady! Do me the honor of letting me carry that for you."

She turned and found that not all of the newcomers had followed the king and queen into the hall. The one called Taliesin sauntered towards her, his cloak flung back over one shoulder, a kind if playful smile on his face. He had a very nice voice, deep and just slightly throaty.

Marian paused and shook her head with an amused quirk of her lips.  
>"I'm sorry, Sir. But since I don't know you anymore than you know me, it would feel wrong to impose on you so."<p>

His expression brightened considerably and he swept into an exaggerated bow.

"Why then, you must get to know me, dear Lady. I am Taliesin, bard and swordsman, wanderer of the wilds and tamer of the east wind! I understand all secrets, I can tell you why milk is white and the berries red, I know why night falls and the sun rises and why the stars move forever about the sky. I know where the cuckoos of summer hide in winter, and what beasts lurk at the bottom of the sea! I know how many spears there are in a battle and how many drops of water in a downpour of rain! I am Taliesin, and I know it all." He winked at her. At some point during his introduction, his voice had changed, there was a rhythm to his way of talking, a certain weight to just the right words to turn this boastful speech into a beautiful poem.

"The only thing I don't know, yet yearn to find out," he went on, "is your name, sweet lady."

Marian had to remember to close her mouth after he had finished talking and it took her a moment to understand that he had asked her her name.

"M-marian," she stammered and felt herself blush again.

"Marian..." he repeated, drawing out the word like a connoisseur would sample a fine new wine, letting it linger on the tongue to fully absorb the flavor, "a lovely name, befitting a woman of your beauty. Tell me..."

"Marian!" interrupted a sharp voice just behind them, and they both turned to see Lancelot striding towards them, his handsome face set in an expression of icy and almost hostile politeness. He did not bother asking or even stopping for more than a heartbeat, he simply took the bundle of firewood from her arms. "Come, I will walk you home."

The young girl, thoroughly confused by that much attention all of a sudden, merely flashed an uncertain smile in Taliesin's direction before hurrying after Lancelot.

The bard watched them go with an amused grin on his face.

OooOooO

Gweir and his daughter had been given a pretty little house within Camelot. It was just as small as their old one, but it lay in quieter surroundings, as it was a flanked on one side by the tall wall and on the other by the herb garden, which now lay dry and fallow, of course, awaiting spring and the caring hand of a human to bring its withered plants to new bloom.

Lancelot's pace was quick and Marian had to run a little every few steps to keep up with him. The bundle of firewood, heavy to her arms, seemed to weigh almost nothing to him and he carried it with absolute ease.

"May I ask just what you are doing?" she finally panted, when they had reached her house and the knight set down his burden by the door. He cocked an eyebrow.

"I was under the impression that I was helping you carry something heavy," he said slowly, a teasing undertone in his voice. His mood seemed to have improved, now that they were away from Taliesin.

"Really," Marian countered sternly and put her hands on her hips, "I was under the impression that you were being rude to a guest. What did that man do to you that you would act in such a way?"

A dog yelped a short distance away, a few women were laughing and talking indistinctly on their way to the well and a fresh breeze whistled along the wall, picked up a few strands of Marian's dark hair and tossed them about haphazardly.

"It was not something he was doing to me, exactly," Lancelot replied after a heartbeat's pause, absentmindedly brushing the errant lock of hair back from her forehead with his fingertips. "It was more what his eyes were implying he would like to do to you."

Marian caught his hand in hers, held it for the briefest moment and then let go quickly.  
>"And why would you care?" she asked him, bitterness seeping into her voice despite her best attempts to sound casual. The question seemed to take the dark knight aback.<p>

The silence between them stretched on for more than a few moments, before Lancelot finally answered.

"We are friends, are we not?" he said, his words lacking the teasing lightness of a rhetorical question.

Those words served to make Marian's stomach clench again.

"Friends, yes," she agreed, unable to suppress the heavy sigh that rose in her throat. Her vision turned blurry all of a sudden and she lowered her head so Lancelot would not catch sight of her tears. Without another word, she picked up the firewood and hurried into the house.

Lancelot was left behind, staring at the wooden door as it swung shut behind her, and felt vaguely disappointed, yet for the life of him, he could not say why.

OooOooO

The sky was pale and stained with yellow as the sun began its descent from its highest point, just after noon. The path along the river was lined with trees, their tangled branches casting a net of shadows onto the ground and dust swirled in single rays of sunlight. Rhian was barely paying attention to where she put her feet as she walked along the road towards the mill, a woven basket filled to the brim pulling heavily at her side.

Guilt was gnawing at her insides. She had never known that she was this good at being sneaky, but lately, she had discovered that she could lie to her husband without blushing when it meant hiding her trysts with Tristan. This insight bothered her a great deal, but there was no helping it. They did not meet every day, but once every few days, he would come sneaking into her house while Eadwig was away, and she would welcome him with open arms. Afterwards, she felt horrible and tried to be especially nice to Eadwig, but somehow, that made her deceit feel worse. Her husband took it in stride. He did not question his wife's strange moods, he smiled and let her do whatever she liked, as he had done for years.

On that particular day, she had overslept, something she hardly ever did, and Eadwig had left for the mill without proper breakfast. So now she was bringing him lunch, too much of it, in fact, since she knew he would not eat otherwise until he got home in the evening. As spring approached, Eadwig was repairing whatever damage the months of winter had done to the mill, and that was hard work.

He saw her coming from some distance, since he was out in the open, chopping wood and adding it to the steadily growing pile. Smiling indulgently, he put down the axe and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead.

"You shouldn't have troubled yourself," he told her kindly, his eyes on the basket. Rhian merely shrugged and handed it over, forcing a pleasant expression onto her face.

"What kind of wife would I be if I didn't look after my husband?" She laughed slightly, but stopped herself quickly. Even to her own ears, it sounded hysterical.

Eadwig looked up from examining the contents of the basket and set it aside, although she had taken great care to pack his favorites.

"Rhian, listen..." he began slowly, but fell silent, arched one eyebrow and looked at a point some distance behind his wife. She turned to see what he was looking at and almost felt her heart stop in her chest. Tristan was galloping towards them, his bow in one hand. Right in front of them, he reigned in his dapple grey mare and, taking no notice of the panic-stricken look on Rhian's face, looked to Eadwig instead.

"Greetings, Sir Tristan," the miller said amicably, "to what do we owe the pleasure of a knight's visit way out here?"

"A warning," Tristan replied, his hoarse voice sounding extremely grave. "Take your wife and bring her to her father, it's safe within Camelot's walls. Warn the villagers. War is coming."

_...to be continued..._


	10. Chapter 9

Now we are home

_Thank you, my lovely readers and, especially, reviewers. Did anyone take my advice and listen to Ioan Gruffudd recite "I am Taliesin" on YouTube?_

_I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Please review._

Chapter Nine

Sun had already set before Marian felt inclined to leave the house again. The encounter with Taliesin and Lancelot had confused her greatly, and rather than give anyone the opportunity to addle her further, she stayed inside and mended a few of her father's tunics. As evening approached, however, she heard music and laughter coming from the courtyard, and curiosity won out.

On a whim, she pulled on one of her two best dresses, braided one of the pretty ribbons Rhian had given her into her hair and, grabbing her new cloak of green wool, headed out the door.

The courtyard of Camelot was alive with activity. People usually gathered there in the evening, standing in corners and talking, drinking a cup of wine, and most days, one or two people could be persuaded to bring their instruments and play a little, sometimes with someone like Bors' wife Vanora singing along. However, it was usually a rather quiet affair nonetheless. On this evening, there were not one or two people making music, but three more, Vanora and Adelisa were singing and already there were a number of young people dancing.

Marian observed the merrymaking with wide-eyed astonishment. Source of it all seemed to be Taliesin and his friends. The bard sat in front of the little group of musicians, a beautiful harp on his knees, and the instrument came alive beneath his fingertips. The music seemed to dance itself, the harp's and the bagpipe's melodies weaved into one another like lovers embracing, parting and embracing again. The song was lively and spirited and Marian felt a smile turn her lips upward despite herself.

She quickly scurried over to Enide, a friend of hers, who was clapping her hands and bouncing in time with the music.

"Who is that Taliesin? Do you know anything about him?" Marian whispered to her, her voice so low that Enide, who was quite tall, had to bend her head to even catch her words. Then she nodded enthusiastically.

"It is said," she began, "that his father was Roman and his mother a Woad. But she was not a prisoner, she was his father's secret lover. Apparently, she died giving birth to him and he was raised by both his mother's people and his Roman father. Some say, he knows magic, or he can at least tell the future. Whatever the case, he is known by many across Britain as the finest bard ever."

All that poured out of her in one breath and Marian arched her eyebrows.

"Well, that last part I can believe," she said, grinning slightly, "but however did you find all out all the rest."

Enide giggled and surreptitiously pointed one slender forefinger at Erec, who sat at one table with his companions, a mug of ale in front of him, drumming his fingers on the table in time with the music.

"Erec is a talkative fellow. And I think he would have recited cooking recipes in order to keep speaking to me."

A moment later, the music changed. As the two girls looked over to the musicians, they saw that Taliesin had handed the harp to Lamorak. His playing was not quite as beautiful as Taliesin's, but very pleasant nonetheless.

The bard himself made his way over to them, bowed slightly and smiled. It was the kind of smile a cat might give after devouring a particularly tasty bird. Marian felt her scalp tingle.

"Lady Marian," he addressed her, "I was hoping you would come. I did not cause trouble for you earlier, did I? I did not realize you were betrothed to the First Knight."

Bitterness swept through her and she couldn't help pulling a face.

"I am not, Sir. He is a... friend, only." The words tasted foul in her mouth, and perhaps it, too, had shown on her face, for Taliesin looked at her strangely for a brief moment, tenderly and almost pitying. Then he grasped her hands and smiled once more.

"Well, then... there is no reason why you shouldn't dance with me, my lovely!"

"Yes, there is," she laughed, while he was already pulling her towards the dancing couples. "I absolutely cannot dance! I'll trip and fall!"

"Nonsense!" he told her firmly. "In my arms, you'll fly like a dove!"

And he resolutely placed her hands on his shoulders and led her into the dance.

OooOooO

Tristan had come galloping through the gates of Camelot with little more than a nod towards the guards, had thrown the reigns of his mare to the stable boy and immediately went to look for Arthur. The music and the dancing people only received a cursory glance on his way to the feast hall. The torches had been lit, their flames twitching about when touched by the gust of wind his swift passing brought.

Arthur, Lancelot and Gawain sat at the round table, which the king had brought with him from the fortress of Badon. They were talking quietly amongst themselves, the distant music no more than a pleasant hum. Their conversation ceased when they saw Tristan enter and caught sight of the look on his face.

"Trouble, I take it," Gawain said with a heavy sigh and set down his mug of ale.

Tristan nodded. He looked directly at Arthur, as he spoke.

"Maelgwyn of Gwynedd and Caradoc of Ebrauc have had your heralds killed. Four of their men are camping in the forest. They'll be here tomorrow to deliver your messengers' heads and the declaration of war from their lords. I overheard them talking. They are still gathering their armies, so we have a little time."

The scout cleared his throat, his voice cracking with dryness. Gawain handed him his goblet and Tristan downed the contents in a few large swallows. King Arthur had remained silent up to that point. His face was grave.

"Well," he began slowly, his eyes burning with the familiar fire of anger and determination, "it was to be expected. But damn them, I thought even swine like Maelgwyn and Caradoc would respect the rules of war!"

"Well, now we know that they don't," Gawain answered evenly, "which gives us license to fight back just as dirty."

"No, it doesn't," replied Lancelot, before Arthur even had the chance. "We won't fight as dirty because we need to show the rest of Britain, those who've chosen to stand with us, that they made the right choice in doing so. That we're better."

The king smiled and nodded.

"Precisely."

OooOooO

Rhian's hands were shaking badly. The shock of seeing Tristan earlier, combined with the bad news he had brought, had left her a trembling, nervous mess.

As soon as she and Eadwig had come home, she had started packing a few bags, but she was still beside herself, resulting in her dropping half of what she wanted to pack onto the floor somewhere. Her husband had been quiet most of the time, apparently lost in thought.

When another one of her dresses slipped from her twitching fingers, however, rose from where he had been sitting by the fireplace and took her hands in his.

"Rhian, sit down," he told her quietly. "You need a break, and besides, there is something I want to say to you."

Those words did not exactly calm her, but Rhian had no strength left to protest. Part of her wished she was home with her father already, to hide in his arms as she had as a child, whenever there had been a storm and she had been frightened of the thunder.

Her eyes were silently pleading with Eadwig not to disturb her further, and he smiled calmly, his hands still clutching hers as they both took a seat at the table.

"Listen, dear," he began slowly, "I have been aware that we have not been... close for a while now. And it seems to me as if you are trying to make amends for that. I just... wanted to tell you that there is no need. Whatever the problem, it is not your fault, love."

She stared at him. "What... what are you saying?"

He smiled, reached out and stroked her cheek gently.

"I'm saying that you don't have to go out of your way to please me. I am happy as it is. No man could have a better wife."

His words, kind though they were, felt like knives in Rhian's heart and she could not find it in herself to return Eadwig's smile. As he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek, she felt as if she just might start screaming.

OooOooO

Taliesin had, of course, exaggerated, Marian discovered, but not by much. With him holding onto her waist and her own hands clutching his shoulders tightly, she managed to keep her footing quite well as they twirled about to the lively melody.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked her, smiling. Marian nodded happily, as denying it would have been futile anyway. Her cheeks were flushed, her skirts swirled around her legs at every move and she could not stop smiling.

"Just... don't let go of me," she said and laughed. He grinned a little and pulled her closer.

"Don't worry... I won't, unless someone makes me."

Her smile faltered for a moment and she looked at him, uncertainty in her eyes. Immediately, he slowed them down until they were standing still, let go of her waist and took her hands in his.

The harp had been passed on to someone else again, night had fallen completely and the many torches were the only things illuminating the courtyard. Several people had gone home.

"Forgive me," Taliesin said softly. "I would not wish to make you uncomfortable. If you wish for me to leave you be, you need only say so."

Marian tugged her fingers from his soft grip and gave him an apologetic smile. In the dim golden light, his eyes looked like liquid silver and his dark hair, tousled by evening wind, brushed his shoulders like the wings of a raven.

He reached out slowly, his fingertips a mere whisper against the soft skin of Marian's forehead as he swept back a lock of hair, unknowingly repeating what Lancelot had done earlier that day. Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned forward and she felt his lips ghost over the same spot his fingers had touched a heartbeat ago.

The quiet moment was interrupted when Lamorak called Taliesin's name. The bard pulled back and laughed a little at the dumbfounded expression on her face. She had not yet spoken a word.

"Until tomorrow, then, little dove. I shall send you a song to help you dream."

He turned away to where his companions were standing, in quiet but serious conversation with Gawain. And Marian, still not quite sure what had just happened, looked down the path that would lead to her home, only to catch Lancelot's gaze from where he stood in the semi-darkness.

OooOooO

Arthur had sent him and Gawain to fetch Cei and the other newcomers in order to tell them the news Tristan had brought and to find out whether or not their declarations of loyalty would hold even if it meant being cast into what might very well be a full-out war right away. When they had arrived in the courtyard, however, he had stopped short at the sight of Marian, laughing and happy, dancing in the arms of the damnable bard.

Gawain had continued walking for a few steps before he had even noticed that Lancelot wasn't beside him anymore. He followed his brother's gaze to the dancing couple and arched his eyebrows.

"Gweir's whelp, isn't she? Hardly your kind of girl, I'd have thought."

Lancelot frowned and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Well, not much good can come of it once you start thinking, Gawain," he growled, much to the other knight's amusement, "and as usual, you're wrong. She's not... my girl, or anything of that sort."

The blond knight snorted and nodded once. "That much is obvious. If she were, you'd be dancing with her."

He continued walking, no longer looking back to see if Lancelot followed him.

The First Knight stayed behind, too lost in thought at that moment, and besides, one man was more than enough to deliver a message. He found himself staring at the girl instead, trying to discern his own feelings, all the while feeling angry at himself for letting this distract him. With war almost upon them, the least thing on his mind should be whether or not he felt anything for a girl he never would have looked at twice not so long ago.

Still, there was no denying the rage that made his stomach clench as he saw Taliesin kiss her forehead and then leave her standing there, in a pool of torchlight.  
>She still wasn't beautiful, not in the conventional way, and yet... yet...<p>

She looked like a spirit from the Otherworld as she stood in the soft light, outlining her slight form like a halo. Her hair, escaping from its braids, spilled down over her shoulders, its dark color highlighting the ivory paleness of her skin. As she met his gaze across the courtyard, he felt as if he might drown in the glistening depth of her eyes.

"Lancelot, come on!" Gawain called out to him, shaking him from his thoughts. The other men were already on their way back to the hall. Lancelot took a deep breath and started following them. When he looked back to the courtyard, Marian was gone.

This really was not the time for this, he told himself once more angrily. War might be upon them and they had much more pressing concerns. Then another memory rose, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind, something he had told Arthur not too long ago.

_I will die in battle, of that I am certain..._

In a heartbeat, he had made up his mind and strode across the courtyard in brisk strides.

OooOooO

Marian felt more tired than ever before. Taliesin had promised her a song to help her dream, but in her heart, she knew that all she would dream of was Lancelot. His dark, unfathomable eyes, his handsome face, the unruly hair, the smile he had bestowed upon her earlier that day, when he had seen her home...

Taliesin was charming, he really was, and handsome, too, but no man could, in her eyes, compare to the First Knight. But Lancelot regretted ever kissing her, and the reasonable part of her insisted that she should accept it and move on, give her affection to someone else who truly deserved it. Not Taliesin, necessarily, since she did not now him at all yet, but someone... anyone... There had to be a little happiness for her, somewhere along the line.

The house was just a little further away, beckoning to her with its promise of warmth, safety and a comfortable bed, but as someone suddenly called her name, she stopped to look around..

Lancelot came up to her with quick strides and she watched him approach with a wary expression on her face.

"What can I do for you, Sir?" she asked, once he was close enough.

He took a deep breath. "You can forgive me," he answered.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, as she had no idea what he meant, and she was not in the mood to once more hear that he regretted ever kissing her.  
>"Forgive you for what, noble lord?" she therefore asked cautiously, automatically taking a step backwards as he was suddenly right in front of her.<p>

"For this, I suppose..." he replied, and for a moment, she could see half a smile on his handsome face. Then he placed one hand on her shoulder, the other on the side of her neck and kissed her deeply.

_...to be continued..._


	11. Chapter 10

Now we are home

_Another huge thanks to my readers and reviewers. I hope you continue to enjoy this story. Please review, it always makes me insanely happy! _

_Also, someone asked about my nationality and whether I'm a native English speaker. The answer is I am German and yes, English is a foreign tongue for me. So please look kindly upon any mistakes I might make. :)_

Chapter Ten

Marian's hands flew to the front of Lancelot's tunic, grabbing onto the black fabric for purchase. His arms went around her as he pulled her slight body against his, deepening the kiss when her lips parted beneath his.

She kept expecting her heart to just stutter to a stop, or for something to wake her from this dream she had surely stumbled into. Yet her heart kept beating, even as she slipped one of her hands up his neck and into the unruly curls and yes, they were as soft as she remembered.

The kiss was perfection, immeasurably sweeter than their first, and when Lancelot eventually pulled back, neither of them felt inclined to let go of the other just yet. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Their faces were half hidden in shadow, the darkness just barely kept at bay by a few distant torches and the stars in the sky.

Finally, the knight drew a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but Marian was faster, gently putting her fingers on his lips and stopping him.

"Right now, you could knock me down with a feather," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "and I think an unkind word might kill me. So unless you wish to kiss me again, sir, have mercy and only speak to me tomorrow."

She felt his mouth curl into a smile beneath her fingers and he put his hand over hers, kissed her fingertips and nodded slightly. Then he cupped her face in his hands, kissed her once more, the softest brush of his lips on hers, turned and walked away. She watched him go, carelessly graceful as always, every movement testament to the fact that he was a warrior, the deadliest blade in Britain. And yet that man had kissed her not a moment ago, had touched her ever so gently and held her in strong arms, cords of muscle tangible beneath the cloth of his tunic.

Still, it had been this same man that made her miserable for the past months, who had kissed her without even being sure of her name, only to reject her a moment later, who had claimed to regret that kiss, only to kiss her once more, that same man who had a reputation for taking his pleasure from women with little regard to matters of the heart, yet the way he had looked at her earlier...

And then there was no discounting the fact that those hands that had touched her so gently were hard and calloused from wielding his deadly swords for most of his life. He was a warrior, first, foremost and always, and whenever she felt his hands on her skin -if indeed she ever would again-, she would have to live with knowing that he had blood upon those hands, and lots of it.

Suddenly, Marian found herself in front of her bed, unsure how she had even gotten inside the house, much less up the stairs. Physically and emotionally exhausted, she collapsed onto the bed and cried her confusion into the blankets until her eyes were dry and she could cry no more. Then, happiness and misery still at war within her, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

OooOooO

When Lancelot got to the hall with the round table, the conference was already in progress, yet he had not missed much. Tristan was recounting to Cei and his companions what he had told them earlier. King Arthur frowned a little disapprovingly anyway, yet he made no further mention of Lancelot's tardiness as the First Knight took a seat to his right.

"I expected something like this to happen," Bedwyr said, once Tristan had finished. The one-handed warrior had a slow, deliberate way of speaking. With the stump of his shield hand, he pushed the long strands of hair back over his shoulders, where they had escaped the messy braid he kept it in. It had the color of wheat before the harvest.

"So have I," Arthur agreed with him. "The individual lords sense a vacancy of power in Britain, so they seek to claim power for themselves."

Cei waved his hand carelessly. "We will show them how very wrong they are, your grace. How long do we have?"

"Precisely?" Tristan shrugged. "I have no idea. After all, we only found out today. But there's not much time."

Lancelot observed the faces of all the men gathered. Every one of them seemed attentive and eager, Bors most of all, perhaps. Taliesin looked thoughtful, but he nodded readily when Cei once more assured his king that they would fight for him, come hell or high water.

King Arthur accepted this with a dignified nod.

"Tomorrow, then, we'll have you swear the Threefold Oath of allegiance. All else may rest until then, for the day is done and the war will still be coming tomorrow."

He looked around, seeing the nods of acceptance, and rose to his feet.

"One more thing," Taliesin remarked, getting up himself, "if I may, your grace. Allow me to be on hand tomorrow when you receive the rebels' emissaries, or indeed, don't receive them in the hall at all. Keep them out in the courtyard. By the way they comport themselves, one can learn a lot about how sure their lords are of themselves. It might give us a little insight."

Arthur looked at him and raised an eyebrow appreciatively.

"Skilled in the arts of rhetoric and sophistry, are you?"

The bard smiled, bowed a little and said, "Well, your grace... I do not just sing pretty songs."

OooOooO

Night had settled onto Britain with velvety blackness. Most of Camelot was asleep, with only a few illuminated windows twinkling like wakeful eyes in the darkness.

Lancelot and Arthur had climbed the stairs to the easternmost watchtower together, their cloaks slung tightly around their bodies to ward off the cold. Together, they looked out across what little plain there was to see. Yet despite the darkness, the vastness of what lay before them was tangible.

"An eventful day," the king finally remarked, and his First Knight nodded emphatically.

"Indeed." He drew a deep, almost shuddering breath, and watched as a billowing cloud of white vapor rose up on the exhale. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Arthur, as the king stared into the distance, his expressive eyes mirroring the turmoil within his soul.

"Lancelot," he began after a drawn-out pause, the name riding on a sigh, "may I tell you something? As your friend, not as your king."

The knight nodded lightly and rubbed his hands together for warmth.

"No need to even ask that, old friend. What is it?"

He could see Arthur contemplating the best way to word what he was about to say and braced himself for whatever news his friend and king might have to impart, but when it came, it was still as unexpected as a bolt of lightning out of clear blue sky.

"We spoke about marriage a while ago, do you recall? Have you given the matter any more thought?"

Lancelot blinked twice and then, treating the matter as a joke, smiled rakishly.

"Why, Arthur, I had no idea... and here I thought you already had a wife."

Again they both laughed, the spirit of their old camaraderie returning, despite the now larger difference in standing, but the king sobered up quickly.

"I'm being serious... or at least, I am trying," he said, prompting Lancelot to adopt a more solemn attitude as well. "I have spoken with Guinevere about you."

The words hung in the air for a moment, the implications of them almost as visible as the two men's breaths.

"Have you, now..." the dark knight muttered, a bitter half-smile on his lips. The image of his queen unclothed and washing rose once more unbidden towards the forefront of his mind and he shook his head, as if to cast the thoughts aside.

"Yes, I have," the king went on, pretending not to notice his warrior's discomfort, "and we agreed on something. You know that Guinevere and I have no children yet, and until we have an heir, any kingdom we might build is as fragile as my own life, and in times of war, that it quite fragile, indeed. With war now coming, I want there to be a successor to my crown if I should fall."

Lancelot had listened silently, nodding slightly after Arthur was finished and looked at him, expecting him to go on. When the king simply looked at him meaningfully, the full implication of his words hit him like a punch in the gut.

"Me?" he cried out in a startled a gasp, "Are you insane? What do I care about this land? How could I... no, never! Forget it!"

"Personally, I'd prefer not dying yet and one day leaving Britain's crown to my son, too," Arthur said dryly, his green eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter at Lancelot's indignation, although his voice did not let on in the slightest that he was being anything but serious. "But in the event that we are not that lucky, I want to know whether I can rely on my First Knight... and best friend."

"You're not being fair!"

"No, probably not. But I'm afraid I need to put this question to you, fair or not. If you should have a son before I do, I could name him my heir until I have one of my own, but that would indeed require you to marry," he explained calmly, ignoring the fact that the knight beside him had started pacing around the watchtower like an animal in its cage.

"Arthur, I care nothing for this island!" he said forcefully, throwing up his hands in a helpless gesture. "I would have left it months ago if you had not decided to stay! What do I care what happens to those Britons if they are too foolish to look after themselves! And besides, I am no leader of men as you are... I could never be king. If you died today, Britain would be in chaos tomorrow!"

"Nothing of that is true," Arthur retorted calmly, "you care, I saw it earlier. When it was Rome's rule you were under, perhaps you did not, but you cannot tell me that you would leave Britain and everything I fought and perhaps died for to crumble into ruin. And as king you would be as different from me as day from night, true, but you would still be a good king. Besides, if God is merciful, it will not come to that. If He is kind, we will both live to see our sons grow tall, best friends, as we were. And if you should have sons and I should not, we will see them raised to be leaders of men, grander than any of their forefathers, yours or mine!"

The king smiled at his friend, his eyes aglow with the fire of his vision, his dream. It was intoxicating and truly, Lancelot could not claim that he was immune to the power of that vision.

"Surely you are not expecting me to answer right this moment," he finally exclaimed.

Arthur hesitated, then he shook his head.

"No, of course not. Sleep on it. I won't command you to do anything you'd rather not do, Lancelot, but... I would feel better knowing that there was someone to take my place. Someone I trust implicitly."

OooOooO

Eadwig had taken his wife to Camelot early in the morning, escorted her to her father's door, kissed her forehead and left. The previous day's fine weather looked set to continue, the mist of the gray dawn slowly giving way to the clear blue sky of a spring morning.

Not befitting it at all, however, was Rhian's face. She was pale, ashen, really, and she felt so sick that just the sight of breakfast had been enough to make her retch. Eadwig had been untroubled by her discomfort, eating with the healthy appetite of a hard-working man. Only after Rhian's repeated pleading had he agreed to even take her to her father's instead of letting her go alone. But she had hardly slept all night, tossing and turning constantly. Fear was a faithful companion, ever since she had seen Tristan the previous day, and it had settled deep within her bones, making her feel quite faint.

While Eadwig had taken a little pity on her and carried her things for her, he absolutely refused to stay at her father's, as well.

"Don't be ridiculous," he had told her gruffly, "even if Sir Tristan was not exaggerating, half of Camlann will know before an army of the enemy is anywhere within sight. Plenty of tie to get away." And that was it. Nothing more to say.

Rhian had visited her father and sister a few time since they had come to Camelot, but as she stepped into the house, it almost felt like coming home. Apart from the fact that it was empty.

She felt angry with herself as tears came to her eyes, blurring her vision and making her sniffle. Dropping the two bags she'd carried in the middle of the kitchen, she sank onto a chair, put her head on her folded arms and cried.

It was thus that Marian found her. She had been out gathering a few washed items of clothing from the line behind the house and had been about to prepare a tea for herself, to battle the pounding headache the night had left her with, but her own discomfort was immediately forgotten as she saw her sister sitting at the table, the very picture of misery.

She threw the clothes in a corner and hurried over to Rhian, putting her arms around her swiftly.

"Dearest, what is it? Did something terrible happen?"

Rhian, startled at first at her sister's sudden presence, lifted her head again, her pretty face wet, her eyes red and swollen. She hesitated for a moment, but, recalling Marian's kindness towards Tristan while he had lain injured, she began telling her everything, from the child she had lost while already married to Eadwig, Tristan's son, to the sudden rekindling of her love for the scout when she had snatched him back from the jaws of death. She did not spare herself, did not gloss over the fact that she'd lied to Eadwig repeatedly to hide her adultery, but neither did she leave out the fact that the miller no longer touched her as a husband did a wife or how miserable the entire situation had left her, up to the point of her not being able to keep down her breakfast some days.

Marian listened with wide-eyes astonishment, held her sister's icy hands and stroked her fingers gently.

"Oh dear..." she whispered, once Rhian had finished, "oh dear, oh dear... what messes you get yourself in, sister."

Rhian nodded miserably and dried her eyes on her sleeve.

"But what can I do? I know I am... vain and selfish and so very much at fault here, but I love him, Mari, I love him so much!" she sobbed and Marian wrapped her arms around her once more in a comforting embrace.

"Shush," she said gently, "we will figure it out. Don't you worry, we will find a way. It's just... this was a really inopportune time to become pregnant, don't you think?"

Rhian pulled back with a horrified gasp, her eyes huge with terror.

"_What?_"

Her look of shock was mirrored at once on the face of the younger of the two sisters.

"What do you mean?" Marian spluttered, "You didn't _know_?"

_...to be continued... _


	12. Chapter 11

Now we are home

_Hi and welcome to another chapter! Thanks to all who take the time to read and especially review. I appreciate every single word, believe me. _

_Two things I want to say: First, a short part in this chapter, namely the Threefold Oath of allegiance is inspired by the work of Gillian Bradshaw (Read Hawk of May, Kingdom of Summer and In Winter's Shadow. You'll love her Gawain. ;) ) Second, I mentioned in the first chapter that this story was already finished. That was true then. I have deleted half of it since and am now writing new chapters, but the story will indeed be finished._

_Now, enjoy this chapter. Chapter 12 is already half-finished._

Chapter Eleven

Rhian was in a state of utter panic. She stared at her belly, still deceptively flat beneath the light brown fabric of her dress, as if she expected to suddenly see it bulge outward. Yet she needed no visible confirmation of the fact Marian had so innocently uttered, she knew it as if it had been branded suddenly and painfully into her skull with a white hot iron. Her hands started shaking, her breath came in short, hasty gasps.

Marian, scared at seeing her sister in such a state, hurriedly fetched a jug of cold water, dipped a cloth inside and gently touched it to Rhian's forehead.

"Look me in the eye," she commanded firmly, "and breathe with me. Deeply, now. Slowly."

After a few moments, Rhian's breathing evened out and she plucked the wet rag from her forehead.

"How could I have missed the signs...?" she asked, shaking her head slightly and wringing the cloth in her hands. "I am a midwife... I should have known."

Marian shrugged. "Perhaps you should have. But you did not. Perhaps because you are not used to looking for the signs in yourself. Think of the more pressing problem now: What will you tell Sir Tristan?"

Rhian did not answer right away. Her inner turmoil showed plainly on her face. She was not in the same situation as other women. As a midwife, she'd had women come to her who had become pregnant and, for whatever circumstances, could not keep the baby, and though she greatly disliked doing it, she had been able to help them. But this was not just any child, this was Tristan's! Merely the thought of doing away with it brought fresh tears to her eyes.

"Don't cry," Marian pleaded helplessly, "it will be fine, you'll see!"

She knelt in front of her, her face very white in the pale light of morning shining in through the narrow window.

"You will... you will let Sir Tristan know," she went on, "and he will know what to do. After all, it is his child." A slow smile began to spread on her face. "Isn't it quite beautiful, somehow? Having the baby of someone you love?"

Her sister glared at her and angrily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm having a knight's bastard, you silly child! What do you think Tristan will do? Carry me off somewhere to live of the land and bask in pleasure and love for the rest of our lives? He would never leave his king and the other knights, nor would I ever ask it of him! War is coming, he told me so himself, and he has bigger things on his mind than one foolish woman who cannot keep her head on her shoulders around him! This can bring no good for anyone, and I will do him the greatest kindness if I do not tell him of it at all!"

Marian had gone red at first, but went white when Rhian had ended her speech. She began to stammer a reply, but no real words came out, and finally, she jumped to her feet and ran from the house.

After she had gone, Rhian took a deep and shuddering breath. She felt leaden. The kitchen was warm and smelled of fresh bread, herbs and the smoke of a log-fire. It was so very comfortable... and she really was extremely tired.

She put her elbows on the table, laying her head on her folded arms and closed her eyes, just to rest them for a moment.

She was asleep within heartbeats.

OooOooO

Dewdrops glittered in the golden morning sun, tiny diamonds scattered across all of Camelot. Smoke spiraled into the clear air wherever people were cooking their breakfast and the entire fortress was stirring with the activities of an early morning.

Marian knew that her father would be with Hueil, who managed the storerooms, to discuss what he would need to fully stock the new healing room. They had to meet this early in the day because a fortress as young as Camelot required so much of a storekeepers time that it was a miracle Hueil managed to sleep at all, but it was not there that she went to. She could tell her father later that Rhian had come. Without breaking her sister's confidence, there was nothing she could tell him to do for her, anyway. But Marian was frightened. She had seen the look of desperation in Rhian's eyes and she did not want to imagine what she might do if left to decide for herself. Maybe it was not the best idea to stick her nose in where it did not really belong, but there was nothing else to do.

She had forgotten to bring her cloak, and the cold wind made her shiver. The hems of her skirts were wet with dew, the moisture creeping into her low boots.

When she got to the stables, the smell of damp hay and horses assaulted her senses as soon as she pushed open the heavy door. She peered inside hopefully, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Grains of dust were dancing merrily in the few narrow shafts of light that illuminated the long building.

Slowly, Marian walked down the parallel rows of stalls. The horses were making the hay rustle as they moved around, snorting softly, some shook their heads as she went by or stretched soft noses in her directions. She cautiously petted them here and there, always mindful of the large teeth behind the velvety lips.

Unfortunately, however, all the horses were accounted for. It seemed like Sir Tristan had forgone his morning ride on that particular day, and waiting here for him would be a futile exercise.

What now, then? Unlike at the fortress of Badon, Marian did not know which knight lived where, and besides, going to Tristan's chamber without a purpose such as delivering medicine required more courage than she possessed.

She left the stables, reluctantly leaving the warmth and wrapping her arms around herself and clenching her teeth to stop their chattering. A strange sense of urgency spurred her forward, else she might have abandoned her search and instead gone back to her sister to offer further words of comfort and guidance.

The calls of greeting from various passersby barely registered with her as she crossed the courtyard. A few chickens scratched in the dust beside their coop, women were carrying baskets of laundry, chatting and laughing while they worked, and a group of men were heading towards the gate, warriors sent to relieve those men who had kept watch all night.

Nobody paid her any heed as she slipped through the door of the fortress's main building. Gweir's daughters often came and went with messages to and from their father.

Swiftly and silently, she padded down the hallway, pressing herself instinctively against the wall as she heard footsteps from the left. Jols, King Arthur's manservant, marched down the corridor at a brisk pace. He did not notice her, huddled in the shadows as she was. After a moment's hesitation, she followed him. With any luck, he would not be leading her to the king's bedchamber...

OooOooO

"I hereby pledge my fealty and loyalty to Arthur Castus, by the Grace of Almighty God king of Britain and all her lands. I swear to defend my rightful liege lord and sovereign against any enemy, to uphold his law and never to take up arms against him or any of his allies. If I should break this vow, may the earth gape and swallow me, may the sea rise and drown me, may the sky break and fall on me, so help me God."

Five times, the words of the Threefold Oath echoed through the hall, solemn and earnest. In a row, Erec, Cei, Lamorak, Taliesin and Bedwyr knelt before Arthur, their swords drawn and presented to him hilt-first. As each of them spoke, the king grasped their sword hilts in hand, receiving their vow and showing his acceptance of it. Behind him, in a line mirroring that of the kneeling men, stood the knights side by side, bearing silent witness to the ceremony. All of them were decked out in full battle armor, an impressive sight under any circumstances.

After Erec, too, had spoken the words, Arthur gestured at them to rise, smiling fondly.

"Be welcome at Camelot, Sirs, and rise as Knights of the Round Table. It almost seems as if fate has brought you here at this time, as we receive our first test."

The five men rose to their feet and returned their swords to their sheaths. Together, they took their seats at the table, though they had barely sat down when the door was flung open, admitting Jols.

"Forgive me, your grace," he said, bowing towards Arthur briefly, "there are men at the gate. They say they are emissaries from...," he paused for a second, then went on, "...from King Maelgwyn of Gwynedd and King Caradoc of Ebrauc."

Tristan snorted and Galahad shook his head.

"Stupid bastards," Bors grumbled under his breath and the others couldn't help but nod in agreement. Only Arthur showed no outward sign of emotion at the preposterous claim of kingship. He stood up and gestured to his knights.

"It is time."

OooOooO

Marian had only just managed to duck into the shadow of a doorway as Jols flung open the door of the hall, awarding her with a brief glimpse of the round table and the knights gathered around it. She pressed herself against the rough wood of the door behind her, praying that nobody would open it at that moment. Her blood was pounding so loudly in her ears that she could not understand just what Jols was telling the king, but when she saw that the men stood up and made to leave, she gave up her hiding place and hurried back the way she had come, choosing to wait outside, rather than being caught eavesdropping.

The wind had died down some and the cold was not quite as bad as she slipped through the door and into the courtyard again, leaning against the wall a short distance away and attempting to catch her breath. In her mind, she thanked the stars that there had been no guards on the way to ask her what she was doing, else she might have died of embarrassment.

As it was, she did not have to wait long for the king and his knights to exit the building. People greeted respectfully in passing, eying the procession curiously.

They were facing the gate, and, after receiving a short nod from King Arthur, Jols called to the guards to open up.

Two men grasped the big iron rings and pulled, hauling open the massive gate to admit four men on horseback. They rode slowly, proudly, reigning in their horses when they were a short distance yet from the king and dismounted without offering a greeting.

Marian watched curiously as two of them stepped to the front and she crept a little closer again, in order to observe the faces of those involved.

"We seek Arthur Castus, the traitor who calls himself king of Britain!" one of the stranger said loudly. His voice carried far, and everyone who heard stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. Angry mumbling arose, for Arthur was very well loved by the people of Camelot already.

The king, however, did not respond. He maintained dignified silence while eying the men with about as much interest as a man might show a vaguely curious insect.

Lancelot took a step forward, his hands non-threateningly at his sides, yet his face told another story entirely. His dark brow was furrowed, the black eyes glittering furiously and he had an almost deadly air about him. His deep, velvety voice was icy cold as he addressed the man who had just spoken.

"You come to Camelot uninvited, and before you is King Arthur, lord of all of Britain... if you intend to leave with your tongue inside your mouth, you will learn some respect, and do it swiftly."

The messenger seemed thoroughly unimpressed, however. He spat to one side, took a scroll of parchment from his belt and held it out.

"Fine," he said curtly, "if the usurper deems himself too grand to speak to me, let him read what my lords have written. We recognize no Roman soldier who thinks he can rule because he has beaten back a band of barbarians. Let him run back to Rome with his tail between his legs, or end like this."

And at his gesture, three of his men drew large, oval objects from their saddlebags and threw them. With the sickening sounds of flesh striking stone, they landed in front of the knights and Marian could see Lancelot's jaws clench with fury.

Only then did she see what they had thrown and screamed.

OooOooO

Rhian woke, her neck aching from falling asleep in such a crooked position and with a foul taste in her mouth. Her eyes stung and her stomach felt queasy, yet her mind was strangely calm. All her inner turmoil seemed to have resolved itself while she slept. A brief glance through the window told her that it was still early and she chose not to waste time.

Shortly after their arrival at Camelot, Marian had dragged her sister around the fortress, pointing out each feature of her new home with childish enthusiasm. Among those had been a small, hidden sally port behind the garden, disguised behind the thorn bushes. It was for this door she headed now, huddled in her cloak, the hood drawn up. Going out the main gate posed too much of a risk of her running into Marian, her father, or, worst of all, Tristan himself. She had briefly considered taking her father's horse, but decided against it. Her own mare, Thistle, was still tethered behind her house in Camlann, and Eadwig would not be home to notice her taking the horse. No need, therefore, to take her father's horse, for she was not sure she'd ever return.

Still, the distance was too far to walk it on foot.

Morfudd the Witch lived in a hut in the forest, which was quite a distance away. Ordinarily, she would have been glad of it, as the old crone scared her to death. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Rhian could not do alone what needed to be done. With any luck, Tristan would never have to know...

_...to be continued..._


	13. Chapter 12

Now we are home

_Thanks to readers and reviewers alike. Need I mention that this story is not historically accurate? No? I thought not. ;) Enjoy reading and please review. :)_

Chapter Twelve

Marian wasn't the only one screaming at the sight of the three heads being tossed as if they were nothing but heads of cabbage. The courtyard was silent as the grave for the span of a few heartbeats, only to erupt in outraged screams a moment later. The guards rushed forward, both seizing the four men and, at the same time, keeping the people of Camelot at bay who were suddenly brandishing pitchforks and axes that were used as tools in everyday labour as if they were weapons of war.

It was utter chaos and confusion for a short while, until Arthur's booming voice cut through the din like a scythe through high grass.

"Enough!", he thundered, and silence fell. He took a step towards the men now being held by the guards. "A moment ago, you were simply fools, but now you've proven yourself to be murderers." He nodded towards his warriors. "Take them away!"

"You can't do this!" the one who had so far done the talking protested loudly, as he was being dragged away, "We are due safe conduct! We are emissaries!"

Arthur's voice was cold as ice as he replied, "So were my men!"

OooOooO

The council convened in the hall not a half-hour later. The faces of all those present were grim, yet determined. Arthur looked around the round table, at the many familiar faces, and remembered all those who had been at that table once and who now lay buried at the Wall, who had fought for this dream of Britain without even knowing it and who never lived to see it fulfilled. He owed it to them, both living and dead, to hold on to his conviction. Finally, his eyes drifted to his right and he caught Guinevere's gaze. She was the only woman present at this council meeting, yet not a man in this room would discount her opinion. She smiled encouragingly at him, her dark eyes filled with both love and pride as she looked at him. The warmth of that gaze warmed Arthur like an inner fire, and he found himself smiling back at her briefly.

Then the tall Roman rose, placing his hands flat upon the table, and drew a deep breath.

"We knew it would come to this," he began slowly, his deep voice resonating around the room, hushing the quiet conversation between Galahad and Gawain. "We knew that there would be opposition. We knew that Maelgwyn and Caradoc were the most likely to oppose us. Yet I have to say, even I had not thought them capable of so brazen a move. But we have friends, too. Merlin is our ally, and behind him rally all the clansmen from the North. Urien of Rheged and Lot ap Cormac will fight on our side with their warbands. It will be an even fight." He looked at his knights proudly and straightened, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword Excalibur. "And I have seen us beat much greater odds than this! So, my brothers, I must once more call upon you to fight, but this time, we are fighting not for Rome and not for the church, but we are fighting for _our _cause, _our_ Britain! Our home!"

As one, the men rose, lifting their goblets and cried, "For Arthur!"

They had just barely settled down, when Jols opened the door once more.

"Forgive me, your highness," he said, "but one of your heralds has returned." He ushered a man inside. The messenger was still dusty and sweaty from the road, his eyes were tired, but the smile on his face was bright and he bowed to Arthur, mindful of the small parcel clutched under his right arm.

"Many greetings, my king, from Constantinus of Dumnonia. I bring his promise of friendship, as you will see by his letter, and this gift he sends."

The man handed Arthur the parcel. The king took it, nodding at his warrior in gratitude.

"I thank you. Sit down, man, and have some wine. If you come all the way from Isca Dumnoniorum, you must have ridden as if carried by wings!"

The man grinned and bobbed his head, accepting a goblet of wine from Jols gratefully, while Arthur unwrapped the parcel.

Inside was a garment of deep purple, the fabric shimmered slightly in the light of the candles and the fire-pit. Arthur felt the breath catch in his throat and unrolled the parchment. He stared at it, read it once, murmuring quietly under his breath, then lowered the letter and stared up at nothing for a moment, a slow smile spreading on his lip.

"Good news?" Gawain asked, smirking slightly.

The king nodded once, cleared his throat and looked at the letter again.

"Constantinus, lord of Isca Dumnoniorum, hereby claiming kingship over Dumnonia..."

"Let him have it," Bors interjected with a snort, to a chorus of quiet chuckles.

Arthur went on calmly, "...he sends his greetings and proclaims his loyalty to Artorius Rex, High King of Britain, and as such he sends me this gift."

He lifted the purple garment, shaking it out to reveal a cloak of finely spun material. Silver dragons were embroidered onto the collar.

"Looks a bit too large for our queen," Gawain quipped, making the assembled men laugh again. Flavius, one of the Romans who had sworn allegiance to Arthur, however, did not laugh, but pointed at the garment, an excited gleam in his eyes.

"It's the imperial purple. And I'd say, made for you especially, your grace."

"I doubt that the pope would see it that way, Flavius," Arthur replied, but, as a Roman himself, he could not deny the significance of a symbol such as this gift of Constantinus.

Lancelot cast a look at his commander, friend and king, and grinned.

"So, now it's not only king, but emperor, is it?"

"Hardly," Arthur answered calmly, folding the cloak carefully and placing it back in the wrappings. Then he looked at Lancelot and an amused twinkle entered his eyes.

"But High King of Britain I can live with."

OooOooO

Marian had been wandering the fortress aimlessly after the crowd at the gate had dispersed. Unable to shake the image of the severed heads with their grey skin and the glassy stare from her mind, she had started walking, determined to get away, no matter where. All else was forgotten for a while. The prospect of war looming over all their heads again was smothering her. Too well did she remember the carnage of the battle of Badon. It had not been so long ago, after all. She had but to close her eyes to see the blood, smell it, almost taste it...

She stopped abruptly and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Be calm, calm... What was there to do? She had to talk to her father, had to inform him, if no one else had beaten her to it, and she had to make plans. Camelot was so very young still, so very unprepared for war. Still, she had a purpose here, just as she'd had at the Wall. She was a healer in her own right, and as such, she would most certainly be needed.

Newly determined, she set out to find her father. He was no longer at Hueil's, as she soon discovered. Vanora, Bors' wife, who was managing much of the knights' household, much to everyone's relief, told her that she had met Gweir a moment ago. He was already informed and would be home after speaking with Ganis, the smith.

Relieved to hear it, Marian set off for home. Guilt began to gnaw at her as she remembered Rhian, and she decided to offer her sister more comfort. Yet, in all honesty, her problems seemed petty in comparison to the threat of war.

It did not strike her as odd that the kitchen was empty when she entered the house, nor did it alarm her yet when Rhian did not answer to her calling her name. When she climbed the stairs to check the bedchamber, only to find the entire upstairs empty as well, the uneasy feeling returned.

It was not unusual for Marian and Rhian to know when the other sister was in trouble. They were close, and had been even closer before Rhian's marriage, and Marian had felt it from miles away when her sister had lost her first child. As she came back downstairs, her eyes fell onto the chair her sister had sat in. Her cloak was gone, and there, on the table, lay a necklace. She recognized it at once. It had once belonged to their mother, and after her death, Gweir had given it to his eldest daughter. It was made of silver, neither very expensive nor, in all honesty, all that pretty, but Rhian loved it well all the same and had never taken it off since Gweir had gifted her with it.

"Oh, dear God..."

The whisper escaped her against her will, her knees were weak as if she were a newborn colt and cold dread swept through her. Vividly, she recalled what her sister had told her after she had first consented to help a woman rid herself of a baby.

"I like it not," she had said, "yet these women are desperate. Once, I refused a girl pregnant out of wedlock. I told her to work it out with the father. Three days later, she was dead, bled to death after trying to rid herself of the babe. You cannot do such a thing alone. Many who try end up dead, choking on their own spit up or bleeding to death. Or they go to Morfudd the Witch, and that woman makes deals with evil spirits, I tell you. If it cannot be helped at all, I'd rather they come to me and survive the experience, painful as it is regardless."

_You cannot do such a thing alone..._

There was no other midwife around, not since old Richildis' death this past winter. Had her sister really been so inexcusably foolish to run of the the old crone in the woods? In her heart, Marian knew that her fears were justified.

Horror and fury were at war within her as she ran from the house once more, and she cursed her sister for her unending selfishness.

OooOooO

The meeting was adjourned a short while later. It had been decided that some of the knights would set out to Constantinus, Uriens and the other lords and clan leaders who would send their warbands in support of Arthur. Others were to ride out at once, scouting a wide perimeter. As they filed out of the hall, Lancelot hung back, his eyes on Arthur. As Guinevere went past him through the door, she gave him a knowing smile and inclined her head a little. He returned the gesture, but not the smile. After the rest of them had left, he approached Arthur.

The king sat at the round table still, his green eyes looking at nothing in particular, his brow furrowed, lost in thought.

"Tell me..." the dark knight began slowly, leaning his hip against the table and folding his arms in front of his chest, "do you truly believe that it is worth it?"

The big Roman looked up at his warrior. He did not need to ask what "it" was. He nodded.

"Yes. With all my heart. Do you have doubts, then?"

Lancelot hesitated for a moment, then he shook his head.

"No. There is no doubt in my mind that the country you envision is a dream worth fighting for. But I do recall you saying that you longed for peace. You were tired of fighting."

The king stood up and started pacing. Nervous energy seemed to crackle about him like lightning in a thunderstorm.

"I do not relish war." He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "Yet I have to fight it, if I want peace to be more than a word. If we let the challenge those dogs have issued go unanswered, my kingdom will be no more than a fragile construct, no more stable than if it had been made of thin ice. If we win... if my rule is confirmed thus, we might truly have peace."

"Peace," Lancelot repeated thoughtfully, "I like the sound of it, although I barely remember what it feels like. If the past weeks were any indication, I think I might like it." He smiled. "On that note... if it will let you sleep more easily, know that I have come to a decision about what you asked of me. And of course... you can count on me. In this as in everything."

Arthur turned towards his friend and clasped his shoulders.

"That is indeed good to hear. I knew I should not have doubted you." He lifted one corner of his mouth in a teasing smile. "How much of what we spoke about are you referring to?"

Lancelot gave a short, uneasy laugh. "Well... take care not to die, so I won't have to try and fail at keeping Britain a kingdom. But this is hardly the time to think about taking a wife."

The king clapped him on the shoulder and released him.

"It is your decision, of course. But if you ask me, there is no better time. When else might you get the chance again? And our first battle is still weeks away."

Lancelot grimaced slightly and excused himself swiftly. The others were waiting for him at the stables, after all, and he would rather keep his mind on a scouting mission than imagining himself married.

After all, Gweir would probably rip his head off if he even asked... He paused mid-stride, making the group of servant women who went past look at him strangely. And when he swore heartily at the realisation that his mind was made up without him even noticing it, they started to giggle.

OooOooO

Marian ran to the stables once more. Her head had resumed its rigorous pounding and her palms were sweaty. She would have to take her father's horse if she wanted to catch up with Rhian before anyone noticed their absence. The thought alone was enough to make her feel sick. She had never sat a horse on her own, especially one as large and ill-tempered as her father's old stallion. Llwyd was not fond of anyone except Gweir and during their last encounter, he had tried to bite off Marian's fingers.

Regardless, she yanked open the stable doors before her resolve could falter and almost ran head first into Bors, who just caught her shoulder and stopped her from bouncing back and landing in the dirty hay.

"Watch it there, whelp," he chuckled, taking his hand back as soon as he could see her regaining her balance.

Marian's eyes widened in shock as she saw not only Bors, but also Gawain, Galahad, Tristan and Lancelot, all saddling or having saddled their horses, and, at that moment, all turning towards her, questioning looks in their eyes.

"Marian?" Lancelot asked, letting go of the bridle of his black charger and taking a few steps towards her. "What are you doing here? Were you looking for me, perhaps?"

Marian suddenly remembered making him promise that they would talk more the next day, after he had again kissed her, and her cheeks flushed crimson as she shook her head.

"I... no, noble lord, not you. I was..."

Her eyes landed on Tristan, who regarded her suspiciously, his amber eyes the only things alive in the otherwise stony face. For a brief moment, Marian had to ask herself how Rhian could love the scout, who oftentimes seemed so very cold and around whom most people only spoke in hushed whispers. She would have been scared to death of him if she had not known that there was a kinder side to him, though he showed it rarely. He cocked one eyebrow as she continued to stare at him, and she made up her mind.

"Sir Tristan... would you... I mean, could I speak to you for a moment?"

He nodded, an almost imperceptible jerk of his head. "Speak."

"In private?" she begged.

Bors whistled at that and chuckled, but Gawain, taking pity on the girl, explained, "We have no secrets from one another. Speak plainly. What you would say to him, you can say to us."

She felt like screaming, embarrassment now joining the myriad of emotions warring within her for dominance. One simply did not speak to men about these matters, but fine, they had asked for it.

"It's about my sister," she began haltingly, again receiving a barely perceptible nod from Tristan, as she tried to look him in the eye. "She is... well, she... she's..." The words got stuck in her throat and she felt her blush deepen until she was sure that she must be maroon in the face already. "She is..."

Exasperated by her stammering, Galahad rolled his eyes.

"She's what, girl?" he asked impatiently, "On fire? Speak up!"

Tears gathered in her eyes as she shifted her gaze from Tristan's eyes to his shoulder and her tongue loosened a little.

"She's with child, lord, your child. And rather than tell you about it, she wants to...to..."

Again she stopped. This was a matter so absolutely not discussed with men that even fear could not make her talk. But as she looked back into Tristan's eyes, she knew that he had understood. And the frightening expression on his face was enough to make her cry in earnest.

_...to be continued..._


	14. Chapter 13

Now we are home

_Once again, many thanks to readers and reviewers! Binne, Rebecca, lewilder, Anime Princess, Knight's Queen and everyone else I forgot... if I could hug you, I would. So consider yourself hugged, please. ;) I love hearing from you! _

Chapter Thirteen

Marian felt weak and utterly foolish as tears poured down her face and she took a few steps backwards, retreating at the sight of Tristan's cold fury, until her back hit the opposite stall.

The men looked vaguely uncomfortable in the company of a crying girl, and Gawain cleared his throat, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, as Tristan finally growled, "Where?"

"M-Morfudd's hut, I think" Marian squeaked, trying not to choke on her sobs, "in the woods. I'd find the way, but I can't explain it..."

She flinched as the scout was suddenly right in front of her, taking hold of her arm in a grip of bruising force.

"Then you'll lead me," he ground out, pulling her towards his horse, without taking note of the panicked expression on her face as she beheld the large animal. Lancelot, however, did notice her distress and put a calming hand on Tristan's shoulder.

Galahad started protesting angrily, but Bors waved his hand dismissively.

"Let him be, Galahad. Women and children will distract a man from fighting if there's something wrong with 'em."

"But we don't have time for this," the young knight stated firmly. Lancelot caught his gaze and nodded once.

"Then we'll hurry. Just you and me, Tristan," he added, turning towards the scout, "and the girl. I'll take her, you can't use your bow with someone on the saddle in front of you."

Tristan looked for a moment as if he wanted to object, but then nodded briskly, grabbed his mare by the bridle and led her out of the stable into the golden sunlight.

"Ride ahead," Lancelot told the other knights, "We will be only a few hours behind you."

Gawain shook his head. "We'll be fine. Don't worry."

The First Knight nodded gratefully, placed one hand gently on Marian's shoulder and took his horse's reigns with the other, leading both out of the stables. No further words were needed.

The air outside was crisp and fresh after the dusty stables with their ever-present smell of horse, leather and hay. Marian had to squint in the bright sunlight. Tristan was already mounted up. His mare, perhaps sensing her master's unrest, tossed her magnificent head and snorted impatiently.

Suddenly, Marian felt Lancelot's hands on her waist, and before she could protest, she was flying through the air and landed sideways on the back of the black stallion. Her heart almost gave out and she took hold of the rim of the saddle and the horse's mane with a death-grip. The ground seemed so far away all of a sudden, and she was sure that at any moment, she would simply slip to the side, with both her legs hanging to the left as it were, lose her precarious hold on the horse's back and fall... Then Lancelot was behind her, a warm, solid presence, pressing up against her. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her firmly against him, which immediately sent a different kind of shiver down Marian's spine.

"Just turn a little and wrap your arms around my waist, if you should fear that you might fall," he told her softly, his breath ghosting across her cheek as he spoke. She tried to answer, but managed nothing more than a little squeak and a nod of her head. At the same time, she promised herself not to touch him any more than necessary. His close physical proximity continuously robbed her of her higher mental faculties, and she did not feel much like embarrassing herself further than she already had in this one day.

"Ready?" Tristan inquired, shaking the errant strands of hair from his eyes and eyeing them with thinly veiled annoyance.

"After you," Lancelot answered calmly, and they steered their horses towards the gate. The guards, having seen them, pulled it open for them and just behind the walls of Camelot, they spurred their steeds into a gallop.

Suddenly, they were hurtling along at a near impossible speed, the rocking motion of the horse's gallop threatening to unseat Marian at every step. Her sense of self-preservation overrode her desire for propriety quickly as she threw her arms tightly around Lancelot's middle and pressed her face against his tunic. Beneath her cheek, she could feel his chest vibrate with his amused chuckle.

OooOooO

A short ride west of the fortress of Camelot, hidden by narrow stretch of forest, was the sea, where grey, foam-crowned waves pounded the steep cliff sides, gulls soared through the sky, their cries and the consistent sound of the ocean like the voice of Britain itself.

Taliesin stood upon the very brink of the cliff, above the gravelly beach that sloped down into the churning water. The wind was brisk and it pulled at the bard's long black hair, whipping it across his face and making the curls dance merrily about his shoulders. His face, however, was quite grave, his blue eyes fixed on some point far beyond the horizon. Despite the fact that he wore no cloak and the spray of the sea had all but soaked through his thin tunic, Taliesin did not appear to be cold. Aside from the sea-birds, there was not a living being in sight, yet he spoke anyway.

"I hope you hear me, uncle," he said slowly, the words torn from his lips by the wind, his deep voice barely more than a whisper, "for I know that they will need your help. They do not yet know what awaits them, and by the time word reaches you, it might be too late..."

He sighed, tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. Rain-clouds were gathering in the distance, and already the air bore that damp, earthy scent that preceded a thunderstorm.

"I know you care for Arthur's Britain," Taliesin went on after a moment, although nothing but silence answered, "otherwise you would not have sent me here. But if you do not come, and come quickly, I fear for our young king. His warband is proud and capable, but his enemies are many, even more than he yet knows. Britain is still filled with unrest."

He sighed and turned away from the cliff, beginning his slow stroll back towards his horse. Behind him, the gulls cried mournfully.

"Hurry, uncle," the bard whispered, "I know you heard me."

OooOooO

Rhian felt sick and miserable as she hunched low on Thistle's back to avoid the low, tangled branches in the forest. Her trusty mare trudged on with quiet indifference, unmoved by the fact that the woods surrounding them became darker and damper with every step. There was a strange smell of decay in the air as they neared the clearing upon which Morfudd's hut stood. It was a rickety building, small and huddled low beside a large oak tree. The thatched roof was coming apart in places.

A fire-pit in front of the hut was filled with cold ashes and a partly skinned animal's corpse stood beside it on a spit. Rhian identified it as a marten after some contemplation. Flies buzzed around it and the sick feeling in Rhian's stomach intensified. Still, she dismounted slowly, wrapping Thistle's reigns around a branch on a tree at the edge of the clearing, but giving her enough slack to start grazing. The mare's ears twitched and turned, her nostrils widened and she tossed her head a little, but remained blissfully quiet.

As Rhian crept closer, however, a rhythmic clomping could be heard from within the hut, and a moment later, the door swung open and reveal Morfudd.

The witch was not what people who knew of her reputation would expect. She was old, but her back was as straight as that of a woman less than half her age, her white hair, glistening as fresh snow, was thick and hung past her shoulders almost to her waist. Her clothes, however, were little more than rags, mended over and over again. A shaggy cloak of fur hung around her shoulders, making her seem broader than she really was. Her eyes were of a strange colour, a pale shade of blue, and her skin looked like aged parchment.

"There you are, girl. Sooner than I would have thought." Her voice was softer than Rhian had expected, but it still made the young woman shiver. Morfudd's eyes gleamed in the dim twilight of the forest and her pale lips twisted up into a wry smile.

"I have come to ask you..." Rhian began, but Morfudd held up her hand in a commanding gesture and shook her head.

"Come inside," she ordered and stepped aside to make room. "We do not discuss this matter here."

Giving the dead marten on the spit a wide berth, Rhian slowly approached the hut and ducked through the door into the semi-darkness behind it.

A strange scent was in the air, it was sweet and tangy at once, and it made her nose prickle. Steam rose in spirals from the large kettle over the fire and the floor was covered in rushes.  
>A rickety table stood in the middle of the single room, a bench and a wobbly chair beside it. The bed was hidden behind a half-drawn curtain of indeterminable colour. On shelves beside the hearth stood rows of earthenware jugs, bundles of dried herbs and many other little objects which Rhian did not want to examine more closely.<p>

The sharp cry of a bird made her flinch and she stared at the topmost shelf. A raven sat there, regarding her with its beady black eyes and clicking its sharp beak impatiently.

Morfudd entered behind her and pulled the door closed behind her. The only source of light was the fire in the hearth, until the old woman lighted two more candles and placed them on the table, before motioning to Rhian to take a seat on the bench.

She sat down gingerly, trying not to touch anything but the wood of the bench beneath her, and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for Morfudd to speak.

The witch took her time. She turned her back on the young woman, searching through some of the jugs on the shelf before taking one in hand and returning with it to the table. Only then did she take a seat and looked at Rhian thoughtfully.

"So..." she began, "you come here demanding what you yourself condemn. And not enough with that, no, you want me to kill the knight's son within you. To kill Tristan's child. Foolish girl!"

Her voice remained soft as she spoke, any yet her words were clearly meant as a rebuke. Rhian could not help but stare at her in fear.

"How... how do you even know this?" she finally asked, when she had found her voice. It sounded brittle and frightened to her own ears.

Morfudd gave that question a dismissive wave with one thin hand.

"I am, what I am, girl, and I have eyes in many places. Eyes that regard carefully what our noble king and his great knights do. Arthur," she let that name linger on her tongue and smiled, "is stirring up so much in Britain that even the spirits of the forest whisper his name."

Rhian kneaded her fingers together until her knuckles cracked. Cold sweat was beading on her forehead. She opened her mouth a few times, yet the question she wanted to ask did not come.

"Yes, spirits," Morfudd answered it anyway, "but there is no need to look so scared, child. They are everywhere, and people have dealt with them since the beginning of time... though less and less, I grant you. When the Romans came and brought us their ways and finally their God, the people began to forget the ancient wisdom." She sighed. "So little of it is still remembered, yet what there is is still enough to awe all of you who look no further for their miracles than their own eyesight will grant them."

"But... the dead animal outside..." Rhian protested, only to be interrupted by the old woman yet again.

"It is to ward off evil, girl, not to invite it in. _They_ do not like the smell of death. It is much easier to wreak havoc upon the living. The dead marten will keep _them_ from my doorstep if they think that the price has already been paid." She cocked her head to one side and smiled. "But you would not understand, nor do you have to. You are a good girl, Rhian, even if you are foolish. I will not kill the knight's child for you."

She felt the tears come once more and covered her face with her hands. Somehow, crying in front of Morfudd was worse than anywhere else. To her great surprise, the witch reached over and stroked her hair softly, murmuring soothing nonsense until she could raise her head again and dried her eyes with the back of her hands.

"But my husband... he will know that the child is not his. How can I tell him...?"

"Don't!" Morfudd's eyes flashed and she held up both her bony hands in warning. "Beware your husband, child! Do not let him know, or he will kill you and your child within you!"

A sudden chill seemed to sweep through the hut and Rhian shivered again, her skin erupting in goosebumps. The raven gave a sharp cry and ruffled its feathers.

"But Eadwig is the gentlest man I know!" she protested after a moment, when her trembling had died down. Morfudd laughed at her then, a cold, hateful cackle.

"Yes, you would think that. But I know better. That man threw stones at my back when they drove me from the village, as if he hadn't that it was not me who...," she stopped herself, gave Rhian's hands a brief pat and smiled ruefully. "But that was before you came, of course. Just believe me, I urge you, for your safety may very well depend on it. Eadwig should be thankful, if people saw your belly ripe with child, it would hide his own condition, wouldn't it?"

She cackled again at the nonplussed look on Rhian's face. The raven cried again and flapped its wings once.

"Have you not once asked yourself, girl, why the man may lie next to one of the most beautiful women in Britain and touch her not? Oh, he wants to, believe me... twice he's been here, asking for my help and threatening me should I not give it. But I do not help, no, I remember too well."

The old woman jumped to her feet with surprising agility and started pacing up and down. Rhian could only sit there and stare as the world she knew slowly came apart around her. The thought of Eadwig now made her shiver.

"No future is certain, girl," Morfudd exclaimed suddenly, coming to a stop right in front of Rhian and cupping the young woman's face softly in her hands.

"No future is certain," she repeated with quiet intensity, her eyes catching and holding Rhian's gaze, "especially since Arthur and his knights are here, changing our world faster than any mere mortals should be able to. They are bright lights in the murky darkness of tomorrow. I can never see clearly, but ever since my raven told me of you..." she paused and the bird gave another cry, as if it understood every word. Morfudd smiled and went on, her hands smoothing Rhian's curls away from her forehead, "... I have been keeping you and yours within my sight. And I dreamed of many things. Your child will be great in his day, stronger than his father and more beautiful even than his mother. He will be one of the pillars Arthur's Britain will one day rest upon." She dropped a kiss on Rhian's forehead and the young woman was no longer afraid. Then Morfudd pulled back and pointed at the door.

"Go now, and try not be afraid. Danger will come, for all of us, but you are never alone. And if the worst should happen, I will send one of my own blood to save you. Go now."

Rhian got to her feet shakily. She wanted to say something, give the old woman some sort of thanks or at least a word of goodbye, but Morfudd had already turned away, started stirring the contents of the kettle and murmuring something to the raven in a foreign tongue. So the young woman left silently, closing the door behind her with a dull thud, but froze one step behind the threshold.

There, in the middle of the clearing, stood her mare Thistle, munching on the grass happily and swishing her tail. The dead marten was gone.

_...to be continued..._


	15. Chapter 14

Now we are home

_Many thanks to my readers and, especially, reviewers. _

_Incidentally, I think this chapter is a little weak... forgive me. It's more of a transition. Next one will be better._

Chapter Fourteen

The hoofbeats of the two warhorses sounded like rolling thunder to Marian, the cold wind bit at her skin and tore at her skirts and her hair. Still clinging to Lancelot, her eyes screwed shut and her face hidden in his tunic, she felt as if he were the only solid thing in this world, as if she would surely fly away if she did not hold onto him.

Cautiously, she cracked her eyes open a little, then opened them wide in wonder and raised her head from the knight's chest. The world was flying past them, already they had lost sight of Camelot and Camlann behind them, the river was a sparkling silver band far to their right and the edge of the forest came ever closer. Rain clouds were building up in the West and spreading across the sky, their bulk obscuring the sun and threatening rain.

Bravely, Marian cast a look downward. In long, graceful strides the charger galloped, even with the added weight of her, its long legs reaching out, the soggy ground flying in wet lumps from it hooves, its muscles playing smoothly beneath the gleaming black coat.

Despite the gravity of the situation, the grimness of the purpose for this ride at breakneck speed, Marian could not help the elated smile that spread on her lips and she cast a look up at Lancelot, who gave an amused chuckle at her excitement. He tightened his hold around her a little, easily managing to steer his horse with one hand only.

They slowed down a little when they reached the edge of the forest, Tristan's sharp eyes scanning the dark brushwood. Small animals scurried, rustling, over dry leaves and twigs. Fog rose from the river, stretching cold white fingers out and winding along the ground like a translucent blanket. The marsh reeds shook in the wind.

Marian felt a shiver run down her spine and wished she were home. Belatedly, she realised that Tristan was looking at her for directions. It took her a moment to remember, her memory not exactly helped along by the scowling scout, and all she had to go on was Rhian's description two years ago.

"There should be a... a stream, in the woods, a short distance inside, and this we must follow until there is a large hollow tree trunk to the... right? I think... and..."

She fell silent and sighed. Tristan seemed somewhat less than impressed by her stammering. He dismounted and threw the reigns loosely over a branch.

"I will be quicker following her trail. Wait here," he told Lancelot, who nodded calmly, said, "Be careful," and watched Tristan disappear into the trees.

"But..." Marian started to protest, but Lancelot simply got off his horse as well and reached out to her.

"Don't worry," he reassured her, mistaking the sudden look of unease in her eyes for worry for Rhian, "Tristan would never lay a hand on her in anger."

It was not concern for her sister, however, that caused Marian's heart to beat faster, it was the prospect of being alone with Lancelot for however long it took for Tristan to return. The prospect of him confusing her even further was one she did not relish.

Still, she forced a small smile, put her hands on his shoulders and slid off the horse, directly into his arms. He let her go quickly, however, taking his horse's reigns and tying it to a branch next to Tristan's.

It grew steadily colder, the sun now hidden entirely behind dark, threatening clouds, and in the distance, the first bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. Marian flinched in fright as, a short while later, a resounding crack of thunder tore through the air. Rain would be sure to follow.

"And now we wait..." she murmured, as the silence became uncomfortable for her, and she wrapped her arms around her slim torso for a little warmth.

"We do," the knight agreed, seeming perfectly at ease as he took a seat on a log, resting his back against the trunk of a tree. "And since we have to wait, we may as well use this opportunity to talk."

The first drops of rain fell, and Marian retreated further under the trees.

"I'd rather not, Sir," she said quietly, after it became apparent that Lancelot was waiting for her response. "I have a feeling that my sister is going to need me, once Sir Tristan returns with her, and I'd like to be there for her entirely."

Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky and the rain began in earnest. From one moment to the next, it poured down from the clouds as if to drown all of Britain, and Marian pressed herself against a tree trunk, trying in vain to find shelter beneath the bare crown. She closed her eyes as another thunderclap sounded, and wished for the world to go away. She wanted to open her eyes and find herself in her warm bed, back at the fortress of Badon, with Lancelot being no more than a dangerously beautiful man she could admire from afar, but would never speak to, and with herself still firmly believing in the illusion that her sister was happily married and would never stray from the path of virtue.

"And why must you be there for her?" Lancelot asked softly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and cocking an eyebrow inquisitively. "Why can you not care for yourself first before you care for everyone else?"

"Habit, I suppose." She laughed bitterly, opening her eyes again to see him sitting there, entirely unaffected by the rain. If anything, it made his hair shine like silk, and his eyes shone, while the rest of the world was drab and listless.

"It has been that way all my life," she went on, tearing her eyes away from him. "Rhian came first, in everything. She seemed to be... like the North Star, in a way. The one thing to follow when there was nothing else. There were people who only knew me as Rhian's sister, neither knowing nor caring that I had a name of my own."

Embarrassed that once more tears came to her eyes, she turned further away, her cold fingers twined into the folds of her dress.

Rain fell heavily, thick, cold drops dripping from the naked branches and thunder rumbled, more distantly now.

Marian felt, rather than heard, Lancelot rise and come closer, until he was right beside her, his bulk shielding her from the cold wind and the rain. His hand grasped her shoulder gently and she felt her heart beat swiftly in her chest, fluttering like a swallow caught in a net.

"Marian," he said softly, turning her around to face him, "I do know your name, and I shall never again forget it."

She smiled a little at that, and, after a moment's hesitation, laid her fingers on his hand. They did not touch any further, and she was glad of it. Perhaps, when this ordeal with Rhian was over and all else had calmed down, they could both forget about each other, she thought. Or rather, he'd forget. And she would pretend.

OooOooO

Rhian had just reached the hollow tree by the stream when it started raining. The ominous clouds had been ample warning, and for a brief moment, she had considered turning back and seeking shelter with Morfudd until the worst of the storm was over. However, despite the fact that she no longer thought the woman evil, something remained so very strange about the witch that she preferred not to spend any more time in her company.

Thinking quickly, she slid off her horse and sought shelter in the hollow tree. It was large enough for her to step fully inside and, since the top half of the tree had crumbled and collapsed sideways a long time ago, there was even something of a roof over her head. It was mouldy wood and not at all leak-proof, but it was much better than no shelter at all.

Thistle, who did not like the wet any more than her mistress, snorted, shaking the droplets of water out of her mane and kept close to Rhian's side, in an obvious attempt to get away from the pouring rain.

Rhian, meanwhile, let her mind wander. There were so many things to consider. She had not been happy with her decision to seek the witch's help, but at least she had been determined. Her course had been clear, and, if she'd survived the procedure, she could have gone on as she had before... A lying adulteress.

She heaved a sigh. Either way, something would have to change. Yet what could she do? Running away from her husband was no option, since it would mean abandoning her family and Tristan as well. Besides, she had nowhere to run to, and a lonely woman on the road those days was as good as dead already.

A shiver ran down her spine, both of fright and cold. It was freezing, and her dress, partially sticking to her skin with moisture, provided no warmth. She longed for home, for a bright fire in the hearth and a warm blanket around her shoulders. She longed for someone to come to her, hold her and tell her that everything would be alright.

Still, when she suddenly saw the silhouette of a man through the downpour, her first reaction was fear.

He moved silently, as if he were a figure made of mist and light. Had she not seen him draw nearer, she would have noticed him only when he was right next to her. As it was, her fear did not abate, even when she recognized him.

Tristan did not look angry. Perhaps she would have been more at ease if his fury had shown on his face. However, he merely looked cold, detached, revealing nothing of what was going on within him.

Neither of them spoke, until he was standing in front of her, his hair almost black with rain, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. His eyes, unfathomable as always, swept up and down her body once, and his posture relaxed a little.

"You did not do it."

She shook her head.

"No. I couldn't. Forgive me..." Almost out of instinct, she lifted one hand to touch him, but he drew back from her, the cold mask not slipping for one moment.

"Mount," he told her curtly, "I'll take you back."

"Tristan...," she tried once more, her voice pleading, but he narrowed his eyes at her, the same unyielding look he had worn on the last day they spoke before she left for Camlann. She knew that look so very well, and it made her shiver worse than the cold.

OooOooO

Marian thought that if someone didn't speak soon, she would either scream or swallow her own tongue. The knights had taken them back to Camlann, leaving them there to catch up with their brothers, and Rhian and Marian had gone on to Camelot on foot, after taking Thistle back to her stall at the miller's house, rubbing her down and feeding her. All of this had occurred in complete silence. And yet Marian longed for someone to speak to her, someone to focus on to quit the whirling of her own thoughts.

They had not spoken further, Lancelot and her. Tristan had returned with Rhian more quickly than she had anticipated and all the words she had so carefully prepared in her mind while their hands had touched, words she considered very bold, now that she rethought them, had evaporated at the sight of her sister, small, quiet and silently weeping on the back of her mare, being led out of the woods by a man who treated her as if she were a stranger.

Tristan had not even taken the time to tell them goodbye as they reached Camlann. He had simply tossed Thistle's reigns back at Rhian, turned his own horse around and set off at a canter.

Lancelot, at least, had taken the time to tell them farewell. The knights would be gone till afternoon of the next day, at least.

Marian shut the door to her father's house behind her and sighed.

"Will you not say something? You cannot be silent forever!" she finally exclaimed.

Rhian, who was just struggling out of her wet dress to hang it before the fire, ignored her. Marian clenched her hands into tight fists and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

"Fine!" she snapped at her elder sister's back, "Then let me tell you something, if you seriously think to play the innocent one here. I think you are the most spoilt, selfish person alive! Perhaps father and I are at fault, for spoiling you so, but... Really, there you were, had the love of one of the rarest of men, and then you run off, because he won't bend to your every whim... Now you are married, but even that's not enough for you and you have to drag everyone down into your personal misfortune!" Her voice became louder, as years of pent-up anger came gushing to the surface, like water boiling over. "Have you not once thought of what this might do to father? You're his pride and joy, yet you never spare one thought for..."

Suddenly, Rhian turned, her eyes brimming with tears, her face pale as whitewash. She looked so fraught with misery that there were simply no words for it and Marian's telling-off caught in her own throat.

"I am so frightened..." Rhian whispered, and then she was crying, her entire body shaking with sobs, and as she collapsed, her sister was there to hold her. Marian wrapped her arms around her tightly, held her, rocking her slightly as she might do a crying babe, and whispered soothing words into her hair.

Habit, she had told Lancelot, was making her care so for her sister, but she realised with painful clarity once more that it was love, also. No matter what kinds of foolishness Rhian got up to, she would never be able to turn her back on her.

Neither of them noticed the large black raven watching them from the window.

OooOooO

On the following midday, the tower guards called down into the courtyard to summon the king and alert him to the large host of people arriving on the horizon.

A man ran and returned shortly with Arthur, Guinevere and the remaining knights close behind. By then, however, something else had been discovered about the oncoming people that had the king command his men to throw open the gates. And really, as they drew closer, they could see the dragon banner flying overhead, the flag of the High King of Britain.

"Those are my father's people," Guinevere observed, her eyes, sharper than most others, narrowed in concentration. "They are being led by Gwalchaved, my father's war leader."

Her own surprise was audible in her tone of voice, and it was echoed on the king's face.

"How would Merlin know to send his people?" he asked incredulously. "Our messengers can't even have reached him yet."

A short while later, the Picts reached the gate. They were all warriors, well armed and their skin stained with blue. The man leading them, Gwalchaved, as Guinevere had called him, stepped up to Arthur and gave him a short bow. The large Roman recognized him at once: He was the man who had led the attack on the carriage of Bishop Germanius, the one whom he had held at sword's point and then let go. He smiled.

"Gwalchaved.. welcome to Camelot, to you and your men. But you catch us by surprise. Is Merlin really able to tell the future, then?"

His words had been meant in jest, yet Gwalchaved seemed unaffected by it. He bowed a little, a slight lowering of his head in Arthur's direction.

"Greetings, Pendragon, from Merlin. A voice on the wind let him know that you would be in need of aid, and soon. So here we are, with more on the way."

The men around Arthur exchanged curious glances. Behind the king, Taliesin smiled.

_...to be continued..._


	16. Chapter 15

Now we are home

_Thanks to my readers and reviewers, you make my world go round and my sun shine. :)  
>A fair warning: There is fluff in this chapter. Fluff so sweet you could put it in your tea or bake cookies from it, I suppose. Fluff cookies. ;) But I hope you like it anyway. It's also an uncommonly long chapter, but I don't see where I could have cut it, so... long chapter it is. Enjoy, and please review!<em>

Chapter Fifteen

The bad weather had not let up, and already it was looking to be a very wet spring. The sky was drained of colour and seemed to weigh upon the land. Streaks of smoke rose from the houses of Camlann.

When the knights returned, they were filthy, wet and tired, yet they wasted no time, handing their horses to the grooms and immediately reporting to the king.

The news they brought were grim. Time was a lot shorter than anyone had suspected. Somehow, Maelgwyn and Caradoc had managed to bring their armies closer without a report of it reaching Camelot, and they were burning and raiding villages and holdings as they went past.

The knights had pushed their horses almost past endurance and had thus covered more ground than an army could cover in a few days, and they had not yet encountered them in person, but the news they had received from the frightened peasants had been all too clear. Galahad and Gawain had ridden out further to seek them out and had not yet returned.

"They'll be there tomorrow, in all probability," Tristan said, pointing to a spot on the map Arthur had put in front of them on the desk in his chambers. The scout's fingers left a smear of wet dirt on the parchment.

"Then they will be at Camelot within a week," Guinevere stated matter-of-factly. She stood beside her husband, her arms crossed in front of her and her brow furrowed.

"Yes," Lancelot agreed, "unless they take the time to raid that village there, though I hope they don't. Galahad is trying to reach them in time to warn them."

Arthur had remained silent up to that point. He frowned at the map and his eyes followed the line Tristan's fingers had drawn from the endangered village back to Camelot. All was silent for a moment, while he studied the map.

A log fell in the fire, the candles hissed and the damp leather of the men's hauberks groaned as they moved. Finally, Arthur spoke up.

"One week. It is not enough if we are to prepare Camelot for a siege. We cannot risk it." He looked his men in the eye, one after the other. "I therefore think it best to ride out and meet them head-on. Merlin has promised us further reinforcements and Constantinus' men will be on their way, but if we let ourselves become trapped here, our forces will be divided."

Lancelot nodded, running one hand over his beard thoughtfully.

"I agree. Besides, our strength is in our speed and agility. That would be of little use if we hide behind walls."

Guinevere tapped the map with one slender forefinger.

"You could hold them here, just behind the river bend. It's a safe distance from Camelot, but still not too far. You could send back the wounded in carts."

They all agreed with the queen, discussing the plan for another hour before Arthur sent them to get cleaned up.

One week. They would be as prepared as possible, yet there was no arguing the fact that it was grim news indeed.

OooOooO

She had been waiting in his chamber ever since the tower guards had called out the knights' return. Ever since he had found her in the woods, her heart had been sick with hurt, her stomach clenching whenever she remembered the look of cold, suppressed fury and disappointment on his face. She longed to make it right, wanted him to forgive her and for things to back to the way they were.

So when she heard that the knights were back, Rhian had taken the opportunity to slip in through the door, up the stairs and hide herself in Tristan's room. From the narrow window, she had watched them ride into the courtyard, men and horses tired and almost limp with exhaustion. Even from the distance, she could see the lines of worry etched on their faces and fear had made her shiver.

In an attempt to do something useful while she waited, she had set a fire in the small stone fireplace and put a jug of wine beside it to heat it up. After that, there had been nothing to do but wait.

Still, once the door swung open, her heart resumed its rigorous pounding and she briefly wished she'd still have time to reconsider. The look on Tristan's face when he saw her standing there beside the window, fingers clenched tightly around the folds of her skirts, was not exactly welcoming. Frowning, he closed the door behind him.

"What are you doing here?" he growled, pulling off his sodden cloak and tossing it aside. Rhian came over, picked it up and hung it across the back of a chair, which she moved closer to the fire.

"I came to talk to you." Her trembling voice betrayed her nervousness, but she continued anyway. "There are things I need to say to you that cannot wait."

He was trying to untie the fastenings of his hauberk with fingers stiff from the cold rain, and she put her hands on his gently, moving them aside and opening the ties for him. It occurred to her that what they were doing was an almost painfully ironic parody of homely life.

"Can they not..." he mumbled, but he let her help him out of his hauberk without protest. "They cannot even wait until I am rested, after more than a day in the saddle?"

Rhian put his armour aside and proceeded to remove the equally wet tunic from him. Not meeting his eyes, she shook her head.

"No. Not even till then. For I need you to know now, before you again fall asleep angry with me, how very sorry I am. How much I regret not telling you and how I could never... never have harmed your child."

She finally met his even stare, although it was hard to look at him.

"I love you, so very much," she went on, her hands resting on his shoulders, "and all the mistakes so far have been mine, I know that. But it's not that I don't trust you, it's just..." Words failed her for a moment and he narrowed his eyes a little, but still he let her continue without interruption. "I did not want to force a family upon you back then. So I thought, young and foolish and... hurt in my pride as I was, that I'd be doing you a favour if I were to run off with a man who would marry me and give me children and you would no longer be bothered by me. I have regretted it every day since then. And now, to be with child, your child... it scared me. It scared me so very much. And I am even more afraid now, for I do not know where to turn for help, since Eadwig will know and, after all, it will be your son..."

She fell silent abruptly as he took a step back from her, her hands slipping off his shoulders. She shook like a leaf in a storm, but her eyes were mercifully dry.

Tristan finished undressing in silence. Then he poured some water into the basin to wash off the worst of the grime, pulled on a fresh pair of breeches and a clean tunic. Only then did he look back at Rhian, who stood very still, right where he had left her, facing the door and not saying a word, as if she hoped she might just disappear into the floor if she were just quiet enough.

"Are you finished?"

She swallowed dryly and nodded. "I am," she whispered.

Suddenly, he was in front of her again, his eyes searching her face for a moment. Then he grasped her chin gently in one hand and tilted her head up so she'd have to meet his eyes.

"You are impossible," he told her quietly, his voice almost soft for once. "I knew from seeing you play with other children when you were little that you would be trouble when you were grown. But it is always the wildest horse one wants to tame..." He sighed and, with his free hand, brushed her hair back from her forehead. "You are mine, and so is the child you carry. And your fool of a husband will never lay a hand on you again if he wishes to keep it."

It was as much a declaration of love as Rhian had ever received from him, and she thought her knees might buckle with relief. She knew that he had not forgiven her yet, but he would not abandon her. That in itself was more than she could have hoped for.

When he let go of her and stretched out on the bed with a tired groan, she reached for the door handle to quietly slip out of the room and leave him in peace, but he stopped her.

"Eh! Where do you think you're going?"

And when she looked back at him, he was indicating the space beside him.

"Come to bed already."

OooOooO

Like his brothers-in-arms, Lancelot had cleaned himself up after the meeting with Arthur had been adjourned, but unlike them, he had not retired to bed afterwards. He was tired, exhausted, in fact, but there was something he wanted done before he could find rest.

After donning fresh clothes, he left his room again, went out into the courtyard and turned left. One of the stone buildings that had, in times past, probably been used as a store room, now housed the surgery and the supplies for the healers, or at least a portion of them. The door stood ajar, and he entered after knocking on the frame briefly.

Gweir had looked up from a pile of leather satchels he had been sorting, a brief look of surprise crossing his face.

"Greetings! If Arthur – eh, I mean the king – wants that list of supplies we'll be needing, it's not done yet."

Lancelot cleared his throat and inclined his head in greeting. He called himself a fool for actually being nervous, yet there was no denying the fact that his palms felt a little sweaty. Once more, he thought his plan through, looking for any sign of doubt in his mind. When there was none, he sighed and took a few steps closer.

"The king did not send me," he admitted, "This is... personal."

The healer cocked an eyebrow and straightened, turning towards Lancelot and giving him his full attention.

"Personal? How fascinating. Don't keep me in suspense," he said dryly, lifting the corner of his mouth in an amused little half-smile.

Lancelot let his gaze wander for a moment while he cast around for the right thing to say. The room was, as usual, very clean and organized. A long table stood in the middle, covered with a clean sheet, on which Gweir performed operations, if he needed to. Another two tables were set against the wall. The instruments were lined up neatly on the wall, clean and ready for use, and a frightening sight as well for anyone entering the rooms. The bone saw in particular... He shuddered and looked away. A pleasant scent of herbs hung in the air.

Gweir was still looking at him and Lancelot gave himself a mental shove. This really was too ridiculous. He had not been afraid of the Woads or the Saxons, he would not now be afraid of the grizzled healer.

"I am aware that this is not, perhaps, the most opportune moment to ask this," he began, "but then, when is it ever. I have thought about waiting, but what good would that do..." Gweir regarded him as if he was quite mad and the knight thought that he might have a point. He sighed. "Well, in short, I wish to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

It was so quiet after that statement you could have heard a pin drop. The healer stared at the knight, while the wind rustled in the thatch, a bird sang, a horse in the courtyard whinnied. Yet Gweir said nothing for a time that felt like have of eternity, until he finally began frowning.

"You are jesting, I'm sure."

Needless to say, it was not the reaction Lancelot had been hoping for.

"Indeed I am not," he replied tersely, "I want to marry Marian. How can that be so impossible an idea?"

Gweir folded his arms in front of him, his brow furrowing further.

"Aside from the fact that you, who once could not cross the tavern at Badon without slapping the rumps of half the women present, you, of all people, wanting to get married...? The fact that it is my daughter you want, you lout! My Marian, the purest girl in Britain, as your wife!"

The atmosphere changed rapidly, as if the very air itself had cooled in the room.

"I take offence to that, healer. I warn you," Lancelot said quietly, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "I may not have lived a lonely life so far, but once I promise myself to one woman, I am faithful to her!"

"And why Marian?" Gweir demanded. "Aside from the fact that she is too good for you, too good for any man, why would you want her, when half the girls of Camlann would fall at your feet readily? Why a girl that would be scared to death of you? Unless..." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "By the sun and the wind, if you have already taken advantage of my little girl...!"

"I have not," the First Knight shot back, now thoroughly annoyed. "I formally ask you for your consent, Gweir, and I intend to marry her! Although," he amended, "I did kiss her. Twice, no, three times. But I assure you..."

He did not get further than that. For a man whose profession it was to tend injuries, Gweir certainly knew how to deliver them as well. His fist swung up and caught Lancelot straight in the face, knocking the knight backwards and down on one knee, his head reeling. Then Gweir rubbed his smarting knuckles, looked down at the warrior and smiled.

"That was for kissing my daughter behind my back. Now go and ask her. And if she'll have you, well, marry her with my blessing. But if I ever hear so much as a whisper of you and another woman..." He did not finish the threat, but it was clear enough.

Lancelot, despite the fact that his nose was bleeding merrily, got to feet and grinned happily. All in all, he thought, it could have gone worse.

OooOooO

Marian had been watching the raven for a while now. It sat on the roof of the house opposite Gweir's, and it seemed to enjoy the little staring contest as much as she did. Sometimes, she imagined that it even tilted its head when she did, as if it were playing a game.

She was bored. With Rhian spending much of the past evening burying herself in housework to avoid answering their father's questions, there was literally nothing to do for Marian but wait for the laundry to dry. She almost missed having the surgery rooms and stores of supplies in her own house. Back at the fortress of Badon, she had always been busy, but now going to the healing rooms meant talking to Gweir and, like Rhian, she was eager to avoid her father for the time being. The healer was a shrewd man and he knew that there was something going on with both his daughters. With the coming conflict now only approximately a week away, however, he had no time to spare for them and they were able to keep out of his way most of the time.

There was little worse than being bored, Marian decided, idly twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, unless it was being bored and anxious at the same time. She longed for something to do, something to keep her occupied and stop her from thinking too much about her sister, the coming war, Lancelot... him most of all.

She sat on a low bench in front of the house, wrapped in one of her father's cloaks that was much too big for her, but kept her wonderfully warm and whiled away the time until there was something to do. She could have gone to see if Adelisa and Enide had time for her or maybe the queen could have set her a task, but she did not feel like talking, and anything to do with the queen or her ladies would inevitably have turned into an exchange of gossip. The raven was much better company at the moment.

No more than a few heartbeats after that thought had crossed her mind, the black bird gave a startled cry and took flight, disappearing behind another thatched roof.

Marian frowned and stood up to see what might have startled it, when a man turned the corner and headed towards her. Her stomach twisted slightly when she recognised Lancelot, but when she saw the blood on his face, her eyes widened in alarm.

"Good grief, my lord, what happened to your face?" she blurted out, effectively cutting across his words of greeting. "Come inside, let me look at that."

Lancelot gave her an amused smile. She always seemed more at ease when there was something to be done.

"It's nothing," he reassured her anyway, but allowed her to lead him into the house and obediently took a seat by the fire, while Marian bustled into the kitchen and returned with a wet rag. It stung when she put it to his nose.

"Well, it is not broken," she said after a moment in which she had felt the bridge of his nose with gentle fingers, and proceeded to clean the blood off his face. "And the bleeding has stopped. Not nothing, perhaps, but not bad, either. How did it happen?"

"Your father hit me," he replied, chuckling at the look of stunned disbelief on her face.

"My father never hit anyone before!" she exclaimed, taking a step back to look at him, "Not as far as I can remember, anyway. What on earth did you do?"

Lancelot got to his feet as well, took the wet rag from her and tossed it aside, before grasping her hands gently. She looked up at him, her eyes wary again, and her fingers twitched nervously in his grasp.

"I told him," he began slowly, "that I wanted to marry you. He hit me, but he gave his consent... if you will have me that is."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, then she suddenly wrenched her hands from him and retreated backwards until she hit the table.

"Do not toy with me so, my lord, please... I cannot and will not be to you what Eadwig is to Rhian... the one you marry because you cannot have the one you want. I don't think I would survive it." She lifted her chin defiantly. "I may not have much pride, but too much, anyway, to be someone you are settling for!"

Lancelot stared at her, stunned at first, then he went over to her and put his hands on her shoulders, ignoring her squirming until she held still and looked at him again.

"Listen to me", he told her, quietly and intently, "I am not settling for you, silly girl. If you were not the one I want, I would not be asking you this. Marry me, Marian! You are the one I want, and no one else!"

"No one?" The queen's name hung in the air between them, unspoken, yet clearly meant by that almost silent whisper. He shook his head without hesitation.

"No one else. So, if you care for me at all..."

"Care for you?" Slowly, Marian's eyes began to shine with joy and a smile of sheer happiness spread on her face. It was as if someone had turned a light on within her as she finally began to believe what she was hearing. "Care for you... I love you, so much I sometimes think my heart will stop from it!"

And she flung her arms around him, stood on her toes and kissed him, clumsily and inexpertly, but what she lacked for in experience, she made up for in enthusiasm. He smiled against her lips and then returned the kiss with interest.

The raven, that had been sitting on the windowsill, took off without them noticing.

OooOooO

He stared at the table in front of him without really seeing it. Morfudd heaved a deep sigh and ran one of her narrow hands over his hair.

"You know it is for the best," she told him softly. He nodded and shrugged.

"Curse the Sight," he said glumly, "and curse Fate for being right all the time."

The old woman took a seat across from him and grasped his hands in comfort. Her pale eyes regarded him evenly.

"If you could go back and stop it, would you really want to? Knowing what you know? Lancelot falling in love with her prevented a disaster for the kingdom, you said so yourself."

Again, Taliesin nodded. He turned his gaze away from Morfudd, letting it rest on the merrily dancing flames in the hearth. It was warm here, and comforting. He dreaded having to leave again.

"I know," he said, sighing, and looked at her again, a tired smile, devoid of humour, twisting his lips. "And she will be happy with him, I know that, too. Still... on days like this, it is a burden."

"The Sight always is," Morfudd replied gently, and once more stroked his hair, as he lowered his head in tired defeat. "But you use it for the good of Arthur, and in that, you have chosen your path. Fear not, for all will be well in the end. Fear not, my raven."

_...to be continued..._


	17. Chapter 16

Now we are home

_Hello, my dears. Again, thank you to all who have been reading and reviewing. I'm sorry it took me so long to update. My sister and I were looking for a flat together in Berlin. Christ on a cracker, that is no easy task! But we were successful, so update frequency should be increasing again. ;) Please review. And don't be mad at me for taking so long. Love you!_

Chapter Sixteen

Marian did not dare to move. Her head was cushioned on Lancelot's shoulder, one of his arm wrapped around her, tucking her securely against his side, and her hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his tunic. They were sitting in front of the fire. The soft light was buttercup-yellow and soothing, the flames cast merrily dancing shadows on the walls and the warmth warded off the wet cold of the outside.

All in all, it was terribly romantic. If only Lancelot wasn't asleep. Ever so carefully, Marian lifted her head to peer into his face, relaxed and calm, his eyes shut, his lips parted ever so slightly. The faint lines worry and the life of a warrior had left on his forehead had all but disappeared and he looked younger than he did when awake, almost boyish and innocent.

He shifted a little, his arm tightening around her, and Marian thought her heart might burst with tenderness. This man would be her husband. Lancelot, the First Knight, right hand of King Arthur, wanted to marry her. Utterly impossible, she would have thought a mere few hours ago, and now, it was fact. The man she had loved and dreamed about and never, ever thought she'd even get close to...

...this man gave a quiet snore, shifted again and yawned as he woke. And Marian giggled.

OooOooO

Arthur's eyes were tired and bloodshot. He had been hunched over the parchments and maps on his desk ever since his knights had left and the light of the guttering candles had seized to be sufficient after the sun had gone down.

Guinevere entered their shared chambers on tiptoes, carrying a plate of food and a goblet of wine in hand and setting them down on the table in front of the window. Then she turned to her husband, regarding him with a tender smile.

"Arthur, you must eat," she admonished gently, coming over to him and laying one narrow hand softly on his shoulder. He flinched, having barely noticed her presence until that point, and heaved a deep sigh. Then he stretched, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes like a small child would, and got to his feet. He followed Guinevere to the table and sat down, but he only picked at his food, sipping the wine in small swallows, and was otherwise silent. In his eyes, the queen could see that he was still miles away.

"Is it that bad?" she asked, attempting to bring him back to her, wanting him to share his troubles with her. Again he gave a little start, as if he had almost forgotten that she was there. Then he regarded her, gave her a long, searching look and seemed to consider his answer.

She knew what he saw, or at least, she could imagine it. She was a warrior, born and bred, a Woad, as much a part of Britain as the very soil Camelot was built on. She had a deeper love for her land than anyone, who had not been raised as she had, could possibly comprehend, and the only thing that rivalled that affection was the love she held for her husband. As she returned his gaze, she silently reminded him of what they had already been through and what they were hoping to built together. Her shoulders, frail though she might look, were able to bear as much of the weight of their shared kingdom as his.

Finally, he nodded. It was a slow, forced sort of movement, as though his head was too heavy for his neck.

"Yes, my heart, I'm afraid it really is that bad." His deep voice showed no nervousness, but in the still rather short time they had known each other, Guinevere had learned how to read him. "If Constantinus' men arrive, and further reinforces from your father, as Gwalchaved promised... then we can make it. But if we let ourselves be trapped here, or if we simply get overrun before our allies arrive, then our dream of a Britain united under the banner of the Pendragon is over before it ever began."

She took both his hands in hers and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Her eyes never left his as she leaned in, capturing his lips in another kiss. His arms came around her and he held her, much as he had the first time they had ever kissed. She held onto him, her hands fisted in his hair and she looked him in the eye again when their lips parted. Fierce determination made her eyes glow.

"We will weather this storm," she told him quietly, "we will survive this, as we have survived the Saxons. Britain is our child, Arthur. And we will fight for our country and we will beat them, because we have what they don't!"

It was a testament to the depth of their love and their understanding that he was able to finish the sentence for her: "A dream worth fighting for!"

OooOooO

Taliesin stood upon the brink of the cliff once more, the wind whipping his hair hither and thither, his blue eyes fixed, unblinking, on the horizon. The sun had not yet risen, and the murky twilight of dawn was just creeping across the sky to drive away the darkness. Bleak thoughts haunted him, images of death and suffering plagued his dreams. But whose death was it that he saw? The Sight had never come easily to him, and the images he saw had ever been indistinct, but never before had it pained him as much as it did now.

"Goddess," he ground out, clenching his hands into tight fists, "grant me a sign! Do not let me fail in this!"

A sudden gust of wind knocked him back a few steps and he had to close his eyes against the sudden onslaught of biting cold.

_And what would be failure, raven?_

The voice was there, yet not there. It was light and musical, and yet deep and ages old. He shuddered. Only once before had he heard it, when he had first come to Morfudd for help, after the first dream of things to come. When he had told the old woman about the voice, she had smiled and nodded, but she had not explained further. Apparently, she had considered it a good sign, but even back then, he'd had his doubts. Something in the hollow voice made him shiver.

_What do you consider failure?_

"If Arthur should die..." he answered after a moments contemplation. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes again. Fog swirled around him, cold air touching him like searching fingers. "If Arthur should die and his kingdom fall to ruin."

_Arthur will not die._ _But the kingdom will fall after his death, unless..._

The voice drifted off, the last syllable spoken with an almost taunting air. Taliesin frowned angrily, turned and looked around, but he appeared to be quite alone. Whatever spirit it was that was speaking to him, it seemed to enjoy toying with him.

"Unless what?" he growled, as the silence continued, only broken by the crashing of the waves and the howling of the ever-present wing.

_Queen Guinevere is barren. She will never have a son. _

Taliesin clenched his teeth. Anger burned hotly within him.

"You cannot know that!" he spat at the wind, cursing the laughter that rode on the air. With it came the baying of hounds, hollow and distant like the voice, and all of a sudden, a shadow appeared before him, yet there was no source of light that could have produced it.

_Will you do something about it, raven? Will you do everything to keep Arthur's line going? Will you sell your soul?_

The shadow seemed that of a man, half transparent, half solid, a creature born of a nightmare, and as Taliesin watched, it lifted its arms, held them out towards him and seemed to beckon to him.

_Will you do whatever you can, raven? Will you take what I offer? All you need to do... is stop one heart from beating..._

The cold was painful now, soaking through his clothes, his flesh, right into his bones. He shivered uncontrollably, and the voice had taken on a strange sound, seductive and threatening at once.

_All you need to do..._

A sudden flood of images swept over him, clearer than anything he had ever seen. There was Guinevere, smiling, happy... then, suddenly, she lay dead, her eyes glassy, her throat slit. A pool of blood spread around her, and he watched himself walk away, a bloody dagger in his hand.

Horrified, he cried out, his hand falling onto the hilt of his sword, but there was more. Darkness swept around him, until it solidified once more, another image appearing before him. There was a woman at Arthur's side, a strange, blonde woman, oddly familiar, as she stood beside the king in what was obviously a wedding ceremony. Arthur looked unwell, his face was ashen and he held the woman's hand with the least physical contact possible. Then, suddenly, she turned and seemed to look at Taliesin himself, her pale blue eyes triumphant, and a cold smile spread on her lips.

The foul voice on the air laughed, ecstatic, and Taliesin screamed, whipped his sword out of its scabbard and lashed out at the shadow.

He had not expected to meet any resistance, yet there seemed to be something solid within the shadowy mass, and the _thing_, whatever it was, recoiled. The voice was no longer laughing. Then darkness crashed onto him like a wave of cold water, suffocating him, and he knew no more.

OooOooO

Morfudd stared at the small pool of blood on the table before dipping her fingertips in the red liquid and laid them against her forehead. The fox had died swiftly and without a sound. Its bloodless corpse lay forgotten on the floor.

The old woman shivered. The hut was cold, no fire had been lit in the hearth for hours and the thin rags around her shoulders were threadbare. Still, the cold did not matter. The windows were hung with black fabric to keep out even the tiniest fleck of outside light, and the tallow candle's light was faint and unsteady.

Slowly, she traced the familiar patterns on her forehead, cheeks and chin, closed her eyes and waited. An icy wind swept the hut a heartbeat later, blowing out the tallow candle. Morfudd opened her eyes again. And she saw. Her lips curled up into a smile.

OooOooO

Rhian and Tristan left his room together at the break of dawn. She felt uneasy about walking out by his side, although they were unlikely to be seen by anyone at this hour. Still, when she had tried to protest, one meaningful look from him had been enough to silence her. Besides, there was no way she could be cross with him after he had woken her up by kissing her belly, a wholly uncharacteristic smile on his face. His apparent contentment at the idea of becoming a father had not caused him to string together more than three words at a time, however, and Rhian, still timid in his presence after their encounter in the forest, had not tried to get him to talk.

Their mutual silence notwithstanding, it had been a pleasant sort of morning thus far as they descended the stairs, her hand still enveloped by his much larger one, and he only let go of her as they walked down the hallway and out onto the courtyard.

Her intention was to rush back to her father's house, slip into her bed and try to look as though she had not spent the night somewhere else, while Tristan went on his customary early morning patrol.

They parted ways behind the stables, where no one saw their brief kiss goodbye, and Rhian began her walk back to the house, her hands clasped in front of her and her chin up, as though there was nothing odd about her returning home at such an early hour.

Her plan to go straight to bed, however, fell to nothing. She had been intensely thankful for the luxury of having a room of her own in her father's house, yet when she entered said room, having crept down the hall on her toes, she found her sister curled up on her bed, hugging a pillow to her chest and looking like a little kitten.

Still, as adorable as the sight of her was, it foiled Rhian's plan. Unfortunately, Marian was a very light sleeper and her eyes fluttered open a brief moment after her sister had entered the room.

"There you are," she muttered sleepily, squinting and casting a slightly confused look at the window, through which the first tentative light of dawn crept in. "Where have you been all this time?"

Rhian did not have an answer to this, picking idly at a loose thread on her sleeve, and Marian's eyes widened.

"Oh my... you and... oh!" Then she grinned a little. "Well, as long as you two are happy again, I will not question it. Besides, how could I begrudge you your happiness when I am simply ecstatic myself..."

This made her elder sister curious. She gathered her skirts around her and sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning towards Marian slightly.

"How so?" she inquired, which made the younger one giggle.

"You will not believe it... Sir Lancelot asked me to marry him!"

The announcement made Rhian's heart freeze for a moment. Of course she wanted Marian to be as happy as humanly possible, but the parallels to her own situation a few years back were striking. The knight Marian loved, however, did not hesitate to marry her...

After a heartbeat's hesitation, which thankfully Marian did not notice, utterly jubilant as she was, Rhian caught her sister up in a hug.

"I am so very happy for you, dearest," she told her, meaning it with all her heart, despite the jealous little voice at the back of her mind. Marian took her hands after she drew back, and pressed them tightly.

"Oh Rhian... I cannot tell you how much I have dreamed of this! But I never thought it could happen." Her large eyes glowed with tender affection. "Just wait... if it is possible for Lancelot to want to marry me, then everything will turn out alright with you and Tristan! I just know it!"

Again, Rhian felt her heart clench. It was so very much like Marian, to think of someone else's happiness at a moment that could have been hers entirely.

She cast around for something to say, but words failed her, so she just hugged her sister once again, pressing a kiss to her cheek and hoping it might convey all she could not find it in herself to express.

They were shaken out of the quiet moment by sudden insistent rapping on the front door. Rhian got up and hurried down the stairs again, closely followed by Marian, who had simply wrapped herself in one of the blankets.

When Rhian threw open the door, she caught herself gasping. Tristan stood in the doorway, his face grim and his brow furrowed. In his arms, he carried the limp body of Taliesin. Only the slight stirring of the strands of jet-black hair, draped across his face like a burial shroud, was proof of the fact that he was not yet dead.

_...to be continued..._


	18. Chapter 17

Now we are home

_Another chapter! We are nearing the end of this story (It will be a few chapters, still, don't worry) but we are close to the home stretch. I have, however, another idea for a story already. (*hides face and blushes*) The only question that remains, and one I would like to hand over to you, is which knights I should write about. Tristan or Lancelot have to be part of it, but which one? Or both? And who else...?_

_But first of all, enjoy the new chapter!_

Chapter Seventeen

The brief vision of a calm, serene morning had been dispelled in a few short moments, with Marian's strangled scream, Tristan's low, intense voice and the mad bustle of activity that ensued after the knight brought Taliesin into the house and put him onto the cot by the fire.

Rhian ran to wake their father and then heat up some water, while Marian draped blankets over the unconscious bard and checked his vital signs with shaking hands. Only after she found that his pulse was steady and strong did she stop trembling. He was awfully cold, though, and she tucked the blankets in around him.

"I found him just outside the gate," Tristan was telling her, his arms crossed in front of his chest, now that he had relinquished his burden, "and his horse beside him. First I thought he might have been attacked."

"There is not a scratch on him," Marian observed, "as far as I can see, anyway." She cast a look up at Tristan, taking in his calm, controlled expression and could not help but wonder whether he liked Taliesin at all.

"I'll go fetch Arthur," the scout announced after a moment of silence, and, without waiting for Marian to answer, he strode out the door.

Gweir arrived a moment later, his tunic rumpled, licks of grizzled hair hanging around his face unkempt. He looked expectantly at Marian, who got up, wiping her hands on her nightgown as if they were dusty, and tried to reorganise her tired thoughts.

"He is not hurt, as far as I can see. Not wounded, at least," she listed, "He has no fever, his pulse is steady. He is very cold, though, and he seems to be..."

She fell silent as the bard stirred, some of his hair sliding off his face and his eyelids twitched, but he did not wake up.

Gweir nodded sharply and knelt down to examine the patient himself. Marian took this opportunity to hurry upstairs and exchange her nightgown for a proper dress and to brush and braid her hair. Her fingers were shaking again, making this take longer than she had planned, and then they shook some more when the voices drifting up from downstairs revealed that Tristan had already returned with the king and apparently some of his knights.

When she came down the stairs again, Rhian was placing hot stones wrapped in blankets at Taliesin's feet and draping a thick fur over the pile of blankets. He looked very small and pale amid the tangled fabric and it seemed impossible that this man should be a warrior.

Her father stood a little further aside, speaking to King Arthur in a hushed voice, and, close beside him, were Tristan, Bors, Cei and Lancelot.

Panic rose for a moment in Marian's throat as she saw him, hot, bitter panic, as the thought struck her that maybe the past evening had been a dream, maybe he had not asked her to be his wife after all and he would simply give her a cursory glance and dismiss her, as a woman he had seen, sampled, but deemed not worth of his time.

She felt her skin crawl at the thought and forced herself to remember his words, remember his touch and the feel of his lips with startling clarity to convince her that it had been real, that he really was her betrothed and she would not wake up to find him as distant and unattainable as always.

Suddenly, he lifted his head and his gaze caught hers. He smiled at her, a slow, bright smile, with the candlelight warm and golden on his skin, and the way his eyes lit up when he saw her and the way he smiled felt almost like a caress. She returned the smile, a sudden warmth filling her and dispelling all the cold and dread of moments past, and she was comforted.

OooOooO

Gweir was at a loss. He hated the feeling of not being sure what was wrong with a patient, and since he was – he had to admit it – a very good healer, it happened very rarely. Even Lancelot's comatose state after the battle of Badon had been explicable. His body had been gravely wounded and had needed the extra time to recuperate. But Taliesin was uninjured, he looked hale and whole, and there was absolutely no reason to appear as he did.

"He seems... frozen," the healer offered after a moment's deliberation, in response to Arthur's questioning look, but had to shrug right afterwards. "If I did not know better, I'd say that he lay in the snow somewhere, or maybe in an icy stream, but his clothes and hair are dry and there is no snow anymore."

The king nodded slightly, his worried glance resting on Taliesin's still form on the cot. Now and then, the bard twitched slightly, his pale lips parting as if he were trying to speak, but no sound came out.

"What should we do, then?" he finally asked. Again, Gweir hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Wait," he replied, "and keep him warm. Give him tea, if he can swallow it, and wait for him to wake."

OooOooO

Time was a strange thing. On some days, it was as thick and viscous as honey, on others, it flowed past like the swift current of a mountain stream. This day belonged to the latter category. All of Camelot was bustling with activity. Weapons were sharpened, armour repaired and food supplies prepared. The knights spent several hours with their king, devising a strategy for battle and attempting to be prepared for all eventualities. But there was still no word from Galahad and Gawain.

On this day, Lancelot found out what the "fine title" he had been mocking really meant. While the other knights had only themselves and their own armour and weapons to see to, he spent much of the afternoon running this way and that throughout the entire stronghold, organizing horses for everyone, arranging for extra weapons to arm those who had brought little more than pitchforks and hurrying the women in the kitchen along. All day, he had little time for anything else, catching Marian only once when he stopped by the healer's house around noon to enquire after Taliesin, and even then, they had exchanged little more than a perfunctory kiss. It had been enough to see her face glow with happiness and leave him with the warm, comfortable feeling that he was doing the right thing in marrying her.

As the evening was bleeding red onto the clear sky, the sun a fiery orb low above the horizon and the woods no more than a black silhouette, another cry came from the gates.

The First Knight paused, halfway between the stables and the storerooms, sighed and tried to imagine just what might come next. Then he headed for the gate.

A small crowd of people had gathered there, and as he drew closer, he heard someone calling for Gweir. Cold dread pooled in his stomach and he quickened his steps. Someone, he recognized him as one of Gwalchaved's men, ran from the group of people, presumably to fetch Arthur, and suddenly, Bors' voice cut through the jumble of voices.

"Gawain! NO!"

Lancelot started running, viciously shoving people out of his way, until he broke through to the other knights. Galahad was just dismounting, his movements slow and stiff. There was blood on his face and his arms, a bleeding gash in his thigh and he had to catch hold of the saddle as soon as his feet touched the ground.

Gawain's limp body was being lifted down from his steed by Tristan and Bors. He was very still, blond hair plastered to his head with blood. And Lancelot remembered how Dagonet had looked in his last moments, and all the others before him, and the sick feeling in his stomach intensified.

Without realizing it, he had come to a dead stop in front of Galahad.

Bors, white-faced and anxious, lifted Gawain's head to peer into his eyes, slapped his cheek lightly and called his name. When Gawain gave a faint groan of pain and opened his eyes a fraction, they heaved a collective sigh of relief.

"They are pushing their horses to breaking point," Galahad ground out, his teeth clenched against the pain. "No army should be able to move that fast. Their vanguard caught up to us... almost had us finished, we only just got away..."

Lancelot put a calming hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Wait," he told him, pleased to find both his hand and his voice steady, "the king is on his way."

OooOooO

While Gweir worked on Gawain in the surgery, with Marian assisting him, Rhian cleaned and bandaged Galahad's injuries in the next room. She worked swiftly and silently, very aware of the other knights and the king, all standing around her and her patient and discussing the coming war with hushed, serious voices.

"We don't have a week, then," Bors said. His normally boisterous voice sounded oddly flat.

"We don't," King Arthur agreed, folded his arms across his chest and frowned thoughtfully. "In fact, we should leave tomorrow. If we delay any longer, they will get too close to Camelot." He looked up and at Lancelot. "Can we do that?"

Rhian forced her hands not to tremble as she stitched up the gash in Galahad's thigh. The young knight winced nonetheless and she smiled at him briefly.

Lancelot thought about his answer for a short while. He was paler than usual and there was a pinched look about his mouth.

"We can, if we have to." His black eyes were deep as the night sky and all the emotion was crushed out of his voice. "Tomorrow afternoon, that's doable."

"Will I be able to go?"

Rhian, so intent on both her work and on listening in on the conversation, did not realize at first that Galahad had been addressing her with his question. She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. His eyes were pleading, his face white from pain and there was a fine sheen of cold sweat on his forehead, his hair gleaming with the moisture of it. He looked very young and very much in pain. Rhian shook her head slowly.

"I cannot order you to remain behind, Sir," she told him softly, in the sort of voice she normally reserved for telling mothers about their babes being stillborn, "but I urge you to! You are not well, you will not be able to sit a horse..."

"You are staying here," Arthur cut across her, like a father telling the child he loves to do something he knows the child will dislike. "I cannot leave Camelot unprotected as it is, and we need you here."

In Galahad's face, Rhian could see that he would like nothing more than to rebel against his king's word, but she also knew that he would never do that. He stared at his own knees, his eyes looked black under silver lashes and his mouth twitched in both pain and anger, but he remained silent.

Arthur undoubtedly saw this as well, but he did not comment on it.

"Very well," he announced. His voice was firm and resolute, as if his plans had not been altered twice in as many days, as if there was no danger for his kingdom and the people he loved. This was why men followed him. Arthur never lost control. "We ride out tomorrow afternoon. Lancelot, see about the horses once more and tell Ganis to hurry. If he has to turn the blades of scythes to make them weapons, let him. Bors, I want you to go to Camlann and tell the people that they should take shelter within Camelot. Tell them to bring food and blankets. And ask Vanora to look after them once they arrive. I'll speak to Gwalchaved and let him know..."

He fell silent as the door to the surgery opened and Gweir entered the room. He was smeared with blood and his face was very grim. Rhian knew that look. She had seen it on his face often enough, she had even worn it herself. In fact, it was one of her earliest memories. He had looked like that when her mother had died.

"He is alive, for now." Her father did not sugar-coat bad news. "Whether he remains that way is anything but certain, however. He has lost a lot of blood and there could be internal injuries we have not yet found." He heaved a sigh. "I will watch him over night. If he survives that... his chances are better."

Rhian looked around at them all, struck dumb by the news, their faces very white and very open. She could see the pain in Bors' clenched jaw, in Lancelot's narrowed eyes, in Arthur's tense shoulders and in the way Galahad's hands fisted in the blanket he sat own. Tristan's eyes darkened when she met his gaze and it held her there, like a rabbit staring at the hypnotic eyes of a snake about to strike it down. It was a predator's gaze, but it gave her no cause for fear. She knew what he, being Tristan, wanted to convey to her without words. The battle was close, closer than they had thought, and Camelot would not be very safe, should the battle go ill. But his eyes, burning hot beneath the fringe of hair, falling as ever into his face, told her something else.

He'd kill anything that tried to harm her.

OooOooO

Marian felt utterly small. Her father was having dinner and would soon be there to relieve her. Taliesin was being looked after by Vanora and all Marian had to do was watch Gawain's chest rise and fall. She unconsciously counted the breaths he took, watched his pale face, very still amid the unruly tangle of his hair. He did not look peaceful. His hands, resting on the blankets, were almost clenched, his lips were tensed. He seemed ready for battle, although she knew he was anything but.

When Gweir came and told her to go to bed, she almost fled from the building. The sky was black velvet, strewn with stars, twinkling like fireflies caught in the vastness of eternity. Camelot was quiet, the entire stronghold still and silent, as if one giant being were holding its breath.

She felt torn. Home did not seem particularly inviting just then. Vanora would be there, and Taliesin, still unconscious, still struggling with whatever darkness held him subdued. Rhian, if she knew her sister at all, would not be there, choosing instead...

Choosing instead to be with the man she loved, the night before he went into battle.

Her heart beat like a war-drum, a furious hammering against her ribs, as if it were trying to force its way out of her chest. Deep, calming breaths served to calm her fluttering nerves a little, and she found her feet already moving.

She felt almost numb, could not feel her limbs as she climbed the stairs, and felt as wooden and awkward as a puppet.

The corridor was almost dark, and she let her fingers graze the wall as she walked.

One... two... three... the rough wood of the doors felt alive beneath her fingertips. Then she stood there, her heart pounding so loudly someone would mistake it for knocking and open a door any moment now.

Her nerveless hand closed around the door handle. She really should knock... she didn't. She simply opened the door.

Lancelot's room was dimly lit, the candle flames fluttering as they were caught in the sudden breeze of the opening door. He stood in the middle of the room, close to the bed and near the soothing warmth of the hearth. He was dressed only in breeches, his black shirt hung limply in his hands, and he stared at the door with hard, cold eyes, like a wolf backed against a wall, baring his teeth and ready to fight. Then he recognized her and the look softened, tension leaving his shoulders on a heavy exhale.

Marian felt her face flush, hot and burning, called herself a fool for coming and thought that she really should leave. Instead, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

She tried not to stare at the smooth expanse of his chest, marred only slightly by a few scars. It was not like she had never seen him with his shirt off before... but last time, he had been covered in dirt and blood and on the brink of death, and her hands on him had been there with the sole purpose of healing.

She saw his hands twitch, and he threw the shirt aside instead of putting it on. Then he held his hands out to her.

"I'm glad you came."

His voice was rich and dark and he could have coaxed the shadows themselves to come and embrace him.

Propriety be damned. She loved him desperately and she could not be anywhere else but with him this night.

The dim light danced around her as she moved closer to him, flowing up against him, with his hands splayed against the small of her back.

"I had to," she whispered, hands trailing up his arms into the soft, jet-black curls. "I..."

_The purest girl in Britain._

Words failed her, her eyes filled with helpless longing and she pressed up against him. She was innocent and could not put into words what she wanted. But he was not, and he understood what she wanted from the look in her eyes.

He nodded once, then dipped his head lower and took her mouth in a purposeful kiss. His hands, undoing the laces of her dress with swift, efficient movements, were infinitely gentle, and as he pulled her down onto the bed, she did not think of the blood he'd had on his hands, nor of the blood he would soon have on them again.

She just knew that he was not going to stop this time, and she was glad of it. She clung to him, her skin still cold against his, and she never wanted to let go.

_...to be continued..._


	19. Chapter 18

Now we are home

_And another one! Sorry, it's still taking longer than I had planned. But I'm now busy with moving from Frankfurt to Berlin, and that's quite an undertaking. I hope the chapter makes up for the long wait. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed. Please continue to do so. ;) _

Chapter Eighteen

_... Marian, the purest girl in Britain, as your wife..._

_... she is too good for you, too good for any man..._

Lancelot, who was just in the process of pushing Marian's chemise over her shoulder, longed for his conscience to be silent and leave him alone. It hadn't bothered him thus far, why did it insist on disrupting every moment he had with her?

His hand stilled on her shoulder as the answer came to him quite readily. She was different. She was not just some woman, some warm comfort in almost anonymous darkness, she was the one he had decided to share his life with. And thus, for perhaps the first time, he should listen to that annoying voice at the back of his mind that told him to behave.

Heaving a deep sigh and exerting enormous willpower, he pulled away from her lips, tugging her thin shift up again and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Wait," he told her, wishing his voice did not sound as ragged and harsh as it did, "we shouldn't..."

Her hands, buried in his curls, tightened into fists for the briefest moment before she snatched them back and pushed his fingers away from her in one movement.

He looked at her again, startled, and saw that her eyes were wide and horrified. It took him a moment to understand what it was that was upsetting her so much, but that moment was enough for Marian to start hurriedly yanking up her dress and trying to escape to the door at the same time. This resulted in her rather ungraceful tumble off the bed and only grabbing the back of a chair saved her from hitting the floor.

Then Lancelot was on his feet, caught her arms and turned her around, too fast and too decisive to be gentle. She stilled in his grasp, like an animal playing dead in the hopes a predator might pass it by. Her hair flared in the candlelight and the shadows, dancing around them and twitching madly with every gust of wind, made her unmoving face seem even more like stone, as if someone had swiftly replaced Marian with a marble statue.

"Don't just... run off like that," he said, hating that he still sounded gruff and that he still held on too hard. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Like _what_, then?" Her voice was thin, but sharp, like the prickles of a thistle. "You do nothing but pull me close and then shove me away again. If you could make up your mind about whether you want me or not, my lord, I would be much obliged."

To that statement, Lancelot had a number of replies that came to mind readily, but, remembering that he was speaking to a lady, decided not to utter them. Instead, he took another deep calming breath and pulled her close once more. It felt a little like hugging a fence post at first, with her still tense and stiff in his arms, but after a moment, she let herself relax against him, her face coming to rest on his chest, her soft hair tickling the underside of his chin. Her heart beat wild and fast against her ribs, he could feel it pounding.

"You are special to me," he told her quietly. "Too special to... cheapen this. I want to do right by you, Marian. I want to marry you... first. Will you let me?" He grinned down at her rakishly and was relieved to see her give a weak half-smile. "Because I can assure you, my self-control is not the best in these matters, and if you insist on coming to my bed again..."

She blushed scarlet, sighed and lifted her face again, disentangling herself from his embrace gently.

"I love you," she said and shook her head a little, "but you are _irritating_ sometimes. And now I'll go home... obviously, this was a bad idea. Coming here, I mean."

He opened his mouth to explain yet again, but she shook her head, still looking a little hurt. So he did nothing, let her go and felt like an enormous fool.

OooOooO

Marian wrapped her arms tightly around herself and ambled slowly across the courtyard. The silence was deceiving. She knew that there were still people awake in Camelot, busy with preparations. Half of Camlann was probably awake, packing what little they could bring and praying that the battle would not come to their homes.

A cloud shifted and the stronghold was bathed in moonlight. Marian paused, drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second. When she lifted her hands to her cheeks, she was surprised to find them wet. She had not even noticed that she'd been crying.

A part of her was still angry and unsettled by Lancelot's rejection, but there was also a small voice at the back of her consciousness that told her that she was secretly glad. Not only was it proof of the fact that she was indeed special to Lancelot, it also put off something she was quite afraid of, though she would never admit that.

When she arrived at home, she quickly crept up the stairs on her toes, her thoughts still miles away. She did not even notice that Vanora had fallen asleep in Gweir's favourite and quite comfortable chair.

Nor did she notice that the cot in front of the fire was empty. Taliesin was gone.

OooOooO

Branches hit him in the face, whipping across his skin and getting tangled in his hair, as he stumbled through the dark. He could see the traces of moonlight near the edge of the woods, calling to him like a beacon to a ship at sea. The smell of salty water and the cry of the seagulls was beckoning to him and he breathed more deeply as he left the forest behind him.

His head throbbed and Taliesin raised shaking hands to cover his eyes. He had felt it, the moment he had woken from the comatose state his fight with Darkness had left him in. The magic in his blood had been weakened. He had lost the Sight.

Like a panicked animal, he had fled the house and the confines of the stronghold of Camelot, his distress only slightly alleviated by the feel of wind beneath his wings, by the knowledge that _this_ had not been taken from him. But the Sight was gone. In part, it was a good thing. The enemy had chosen to take from him that which he could have used in Arthur's defence. It was proof that they had not been able to dominate him. He had not been broken, he stayed true to himself and his king.

But what else had there been...? He had Seen something. Something that had been important, very important. But what...?

He stopped running. The air was as clean and fresh as clear water in the moonlight. The stars tinkled down at him. This was a peaceful, friendly sort of darkness.

He became aware that he had not taken his weapons or his armour along. The cold did not bother him. What was he forgetting? What had he Seen...?

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the grass, faced the sky and tried to remember.

The soothing sounds of the sea calmed his nerves while he took his time. He had to remember... It had been vital. But all he came up with was darkness.

OooOooO

The next morning dawned pale and grey. Fragments of clouds hung on the horizon, wisps of white, still faintly gleaming with the echoes of sunrise. The wind was not strong, but it held remnants of moisture, like a constant, biting threat of rain, and the sun did not show her face at all.

When Rhian woke, the memory of a headache still lurking behind her temples, Tristan was already awake, dressed and stood at the window. His hauberk and weapons lay ready on the low table.

She leant back on her elbows and watched him a while, knowing that he was aware of her eyes on him. He did not stir, remaining still like a hawk perched on a branch, waiting to launch itself into the sky at the opportune moment.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, when the silence became too much after all.

"Refugees," he answered curtly.

Rhian rose, wrapping one of the blankets around herself and joined him at the window. They did not touch. It would have disturbed the fragile peace of that morning.

The courtyard was filling with people. Most of them brought packs and bags, filled with their belongings. Their journey had been short, just up the hill, but they were all afraid that their homes, close though they might be, would soon be no more, and the walls of the stronghold would be the only thing to keep them safe.

Tristan pointed to one small figure by the stables.

"Eadwig."

"Oh."

She did not know what else to say. Her choice was made, and somehow, they would have to find a way. Morfudd's words still echoed in her consciousness and Rhian dreaded facing her husband alone.

The scout turned away from the drab morning and pulled on his hauberk. Rhian closed her eyes, listening to the scraping and creaking of the leather, the slight jingle of the metal, and bit her lips. Tristan would be going into battle, and he needed to concentrate on that and nothing else. He could only come home safely to her if he did not have to worry. Therefore, she had promised herself that she would not shed a single tear. At least not before he had left. But it was a difficult promise to keep.

OooOooO

"Shouldn't we look for him?"

Marian was wringing her hands nervously, her eyes darting back to the empty cot in front of the fireplace at irregular intervals. Gweir, however, shook his head. Vanora had been quite embarrassed to find that Taliesin had disappeared without anyone noticing because she had fallen asleep, but on the whole, nobody seemed to think it was bad.

"Sir Taliesin is a grown man, Marian," her father said patiently, while he gathered what stocks of herbs he kept at home. "If he felt better and left, that's nothing to be concerned over. And what else could have happened? He can't have left Camelot without somebody noticing and if he had collapsed somewhere, he would have been found by now."

His words did not calm her down very much, but there was nothing to be done about it. She felt cold, despite the woollen shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders for extra warmth. Fear, anxiety and lack of sleep combined served to chill her to the bones.

She picked up a basket, its weight sending a thin spike of pain through her shoulder and up into her stiff neck. As she trudged out of the house and towards the surgery, she saw her own expression of pale-faced anxiousness mirrored on the faces of the people passing her by, all of them occupied with one task or another. The merry laughter and the happily chatting voices that were characteristic of Camelot were absent on this day. A heavy cloud of dread had settled over the stronghold.

Galahad, disobeying her father's orders, just as she had expected him to, was out of bed and sat by Gawain's bedside. The blond knight had not woken, due, in part, to the potion Gweir had given him the previous evening to dull the pain and help him sleep. He was still deathly pale, but his breathing was deep and even. Galahad did not look much better than his brother. His tired eyes were surrounded by circles so dark they looked like bruises and his skin seemed stark white against his black beard. The bandages around his arm and thigh were still clean, however, and that was a good sign, showing that his wounds had not bled further. His hands were clenched around each other, and his gaze never wavered from Gawain's face until Marian cleared her throat audibly.

"Good morrow, Sir", she said, setting the basket down beside him and offering a weak smile. "I brought you some breakfast, if you feel like eating."

He attempted to return the smile, though it came out as more of a grimace, but he took the bread and ham from her eagerly.

"Thank you," he replied before breaking off a piece of bread, "I'm hungry enough to swallow a cow whole."

"I suggest chewing," Marian returned dryly. Then she turned to Gawain, drew back the blankets and examined his wounds. Her father's work had been exemplary. All the stitches held, the bandages remained firmly wrapped, even after an entire night. Carefully, she drew back Gawain's upper lip and examined his gums, pleased to find them a healthy red, which meant that there was no internal bleeding they had not found.

"He'll make it," she announced to Galahad without looking at him, "if we keep the wounds clean and keep him off his feet for as long as necessary."

The young knight nodded in agreement. "I'll sit on him if I have to."

"At least that would keep _both_ of you from running about when you shouldn't." She smiled, pleased to see him a little comforted. It helped to dispel her own lingering feeling of dread.

OooOooO

Morfudd had come joined the crowd of refugees, slipping into Camelot without attracting anyone's attention. She kept her head bowed and let herself be swept along with the rest of the newcomers until she had located the one she had been looking for.

A cold smile twisted her thin lips upward.

"Eadwig..." she called out to him and, as the miller turned towards her, beckoned him to follow. He came, frowning, just as she had known he would. In a quiet corner, she stopped and pulled back her hood a little. His slight frown turned into an expression of disgust.

"What do you want of me, hag?" he growled, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Your cooperation," she replied, her voice soft and coaxing, "and in return, I may be able to do something for you!"

He scoffed at that. "Like you helped the weaver's son? The boy is dead, and I know you killed him!"

"It was an accident," she returned coldly, and plunged one hand into a pocket of her skirt. There, it closed around the paw of a fox. Her free hand twitched, too fast for Eadwig to notice. But now he would stay and listen to her. Another smile curled her mouth.

"Poor Eadwig," she crowed, though keeping her voice quiet still, "the greatest fool in all of Britain. Will you not help me, if I can... fix your little problem in return? Will you not help me, if I can return your wife to you?"

She sensed the miller's reluctance to even speak to her and tightened her hold on the paw.

"Don't talk nonsense, old goat," he snarled, his massive shoulders bunching up in averseness. "Rhian has not strayed from me!"

At that, Morfudd did laugh out loud. It was a disquieting sound, like dead leaves on gravel amid a wet, unhealthy cough.

"Has she not? Then you won't care, will you, that she is the broodmare to one of the king's knights? Her belly soon to be fat with one not of your making? Eh?"

Her pale eyes flashed maliciously and she let go of the fox paw. Eadwig would be going nowhere. She could almost taste the fury and lust to kill underneath his shock. Her voice turned soft once more.

"Do something for me, Eadwig, and I will give you back your wife. And the heart of the man who took your place!"

OooOooO

Midday had come and gone and the hour of departure was upon them. The knights and warriors who would accompany Arthur were gathering in the courtyard. Gwalchaved's men were already waiting outside the gate. Almost every denizen of Camelot had gathered round to see them off. Women were bidding their husbands tearful goodbyes, fathers held their children close for what might be the last time and young men hugged their mothers with the fierce intensity only pending doom could bring.

It was a bittersweet moment. Bors, surrounded by all his children, kissed Vanora goodbye. Arthur held Guinevere's hands and spoke to her in a hushed voice. Her eyes were dry, but the way she stood, too close to him and with her shoulders drawn up, betrayed her fear and her pain at this separation.

Lancelot was readjusting a few straps on his armour, when suddenly a small figure hurtled out of the crowd and flung herself into his arms. He smiled and returned the embrace, lowering his face into Marian's hair and breathing in her scent. Lavender. She always smelled of lavender.

"You are no longer cross with me, then?" he asked quietly, unable to keep slight amusement out of his tone. Her voice was muffled as she replied, with her face still hidden against his chest, "Of course not!"

Then she tilted her head back and looked up at him and he stopped smiling. Her eyes seemed too big for her face, the cloudy sky mirrored in them as if they were twin lakes of clear water. She seemed fragile in his strong arms, like the stem of a rare and delicate flower. He would have to take care not to break her. Gently, he traced her jawline with his fingertips before kissing her softly. Upon her lips, he could taste her tears.

"I love you," she whispered, her words barely audible, more of a faint whisper, and if he had not known, he might not have understood her. In that moment, Lancelot did not care that he was surrounded by his brothers-in-arms, his king and queen and indeed all of Camelot. He smiled again, kissed her once more and touched his forehead to hers.

"I will come back. I promise."

Marian's smile was a sad, watery thing, but it was better than nothing.

"See that you do," she told him, her voice cracking on the last syllable, "for I will hold you to that!"

OooOooO

Tristan stood alone, holding his horse by the bridle. To the assembled bystanders, he seemed remarkably unmoved by all everything around him. His bow was in its sheath on the saddle, his deadly sword slung across his back. Indeed, his dapple-grey mare seemed more excited than he was.

No one saw that he was not simply looking at some point in the crowd, but that his gaze was directed at someone, lingering on the corner beside the surgery building.

Rhian, however, knew, and she felt the warmth of his gaze as surely as if he held her in his arms.

_...to be continued... _


	20. Chapter 19

Now we are home

_Dear readers... this is it! Well, almost. This is, at least, an action-packed chapter. I think. And, eh.. I hope you like it. Please review. ;) _

Chapter Nineteen

The earth was damp and the air filled with the fragrances of spring. The wind retained its cold edge, but the sun had shown her face after all, peeking forth between the blanket of blue-grey clouds, already on the decent towards the horizon.

For an army on the march, they were surprisingly quiet. The men did not laugh and joke loudly, for they knew what dangers awaited them. Constantinus' men would, in all likelihood, be too late and so would any men of Merlin's. Perhaps they would arrive in time to bury their bodies.

Quiet, hushed conversations did spring up here and there. Erec, Lamorak, Cei and Bedwyr were still upset and confused about Taliesin's unexplained disappearance, but after hours of riding, there were no words left to be said, and they, too, subsided into uncomfortable silence.

The king and his First Knight rode ahead of the column. They passed the dark mass of the woods to their left. Camelot had long since disappeared into the distance.

The shriek of a hawk signalled Tristan's return. The scout had ridden ahead, taking a shortcut through the trees. A scant few moments later, he emerged from the trees, his mare at a swift gallop. He held his sword in hand. The blade was bloody.

Arthur held up his hand and slowly, the column came to a halt behind them, while the knights rode forward, forming a half-circle behind their king.

"We are almost upon them," Tristan rasped out when he had reached them. "Just around the long bend of the forest. But there's something wrong. They are too few, and they have pulled back the vanguard, as if they are waiting for us here."

Bors frowned and shrugged his massive shoulders. "Since when is it bad news if there's less of 'em to fight?"

"It could mean anything," Bedwyr said slowly and brushed a few strands of his hair back with the stump of his shield hand. His clear grey eyes scanned the horizon thoughtfully. "If we are lucky, the two would-be kings have fought amongst each other and one of them has left for home. If we are unlucky..."

He let his voice trail off, but Erec nodded and finished the thought for him, his gravelly voice serious. "If we are unlucky, they have divided their force and the second half is waiting to attack from behind."

Tristan shrugged. "I thought so, too. But I found no trace of them."

Bors snorted. "Where could a bloody great army hide, so that Tris couldn't find it, eh?" His warhorse tossed its head and whinnied, feeling its master's eagerness for battle.

Arthur looked ahead. All was quiet so far, save for the wind in the trees, making them whisper like restless spirits. Twilight would soon be upon them, and little good could come of waiting. If there really were only half the men they had been expecting opposing them, then they were lucky, and if it was indeed a trap, they were too far inside to turn back now.

The expectant gazes of the entire army rested on the king, and he had made up his mind.

"We advance!"

OooOooO

An uneasy silence had fallen over Camelot. The stronghold was packed to bursting, refugees huddled together in every corner, every available space in all the buildings made into temporary sleeping quarters.

Darkness descended swiftly. The sky in the west burned in every shade of red imaginable while the clouds, like old bruises, faded from purple and black to shades of pale yellow. The village of Camlann lay deathly quiet, bereaved of all its inhabitants, and the wide expanse of field and plain beyond it lay grey and empty in the fading light, a burial shroud upon the earth.

All this hesitant stillness was but the calm before the storm, of that Marian was certain. The memory of the battle of Badon was still so very fresh in her mind, she only had to close her eyes to smell the scent of blood and death and pain that had saturated the air on that day. Harshly, she reminded herself that there was no time to pause and fret, not when there was so much to do and to prepare.

Rhian was in the surgery with Gawain, checking on the knight's wounds and rebinding the worst of them, her father was fetching what stores they still had at the house and she had been sent to find the queen and inform her of their progress. The raven she had seen so often in the past was circling overhead. Though it may not have been the same bird, she liked to think that it was. The bird followed her for a while, then it veered off, out over the wall and out of sight.

It was strange to walk the streets of Camelot and find them at the same time fuller than usual, with groups of people on every corner, conversing in hurried, hushed voices, and yet more empty than ever before. The warriors and knights belonged to Camelot as surely as the massive stone walls, the dirt in the street and the banner of the Pendragon on the roof. Without them, the most familiar places seemed odd somehow, wrong and unwelcoming.

Guinevere was, as Marian had suspected, not anywhere within the main building, but in the courtyard, talking with Galahad, who was once more out of bed against his healers' wishes. They were speaking in quiet, urgent voices and Marian hung back and waited.

A moment later, she almost jumped out of her skin when suddenly someone pushed past her, striding towards the queen in a hurry. It took her a few seconds to recognize Taliesin. His black hair hung about his face in snarls and tangles, his shirt was torn in several places and his bright eyes burned with a strange, wild flame. Despite the cold, he wore no cloak, but he showed no sign of discomfort.

Guinevere and Galahad had interrupted their conversation when Taliesin approached.

"The gate is open!" the bard barked without preamble. His resonant voice shook with intensity. Galahad frowned at him and the queen blinked, clearly taken aback by this show of sudden and unaccustomed rudeness. Marian crept closer.

"Of course it is open," the queen replied at length. "We are waiting for the wounded, after all."

"You must close it!" Taliesin urged, barely letting her finish. "Close it, bolt it, block it! Or Arthur will find naught but corpses here upon his return!"

OooOooO

Rhian wished her father would hurry and join her in the surgery. She absolutely hated being alone lately, and being in only Gawain's company, who had not yet woken, was worse still. The room smelled of blood, herbs and damp fabric, the fumes from the kettle over the fire rose in lazy spirals and the flames of the candles flickered.

Something felt wrong. She could not put her finger on it, but it was like the air before a thunderstorm. The only thing uncertain was where the lightning might strike.

Rhian had bathed the dried blood off of Gawain's wounds, had cleaned them thoroughly, applied poultices and wrapped them up again in clean linen. She had given the knight some water, which he had swallowed without waking and then she had taken a seat by his bedside. Her father did not come.

The warmth of the fire, the crackling of the flames and the soft, even sound of Gawain's breathing lulled her to sleep. A few times, she caught herself before her head dropped to the side, rubbed her eyes and sat up straighter to remain awake, but she had not slept much in the past nights and it was taking its toll on her exhausted body. Sleep was like a cosy blanket, draping itself over her and smothering her in warmth and peacefulness. Darkness claimed her, the tension ebbing from her, and it felt like diving into a warm, black lake of comfort.

Afterwards -it might have been an hour or merely the span of a few heartbeats-, the world around her seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces. The sound of the door slamming ripped her from her dreams, the flames flickered madly and her sleep-foggy brain would not catch up with what she saw... Morfudd's face swam before her, her formerly stark-white hair an odd shade of blonde, her pale eyes glittering like the first frost of winter. She had half risen from her chair, panic suddenly gripping her heart, when a blow caught her on the side of the head. Red flashed before her eyes, then black, then nothing.

OooOooO

The scraps of the queen's dinner lay abandoned on the table. The servants who had been in the process of cleaning up had been sent off and Guinevere swept the crumbs of dark bread aside to spread a map on the wooden tabletop.

"How close are they?" she asked, as Taliesin and Galahad bent over the map with her.

"Here," Taliesin answered after a moments contemplation, his fingertips almost brushing Camelot. "You are betrayed, my lady. The two commanders have split their host in two. Maelgwyn is awaiting your husband here, where they will expect him, with enough men to hold him there, and Caradoc is cutting in behind him." He looked up at her. "He plans to take Camelot, slaughter whoever opposes him and then attack Arthur's already decimated force from behind!"

Galahad regarded him through narrowed eyes. Cold beads of sweat had gathered on the young man's brow, and he was biting his lips against the pain.

"Why should we trust you?" he asked Taliesin bitingly. "You are almost a stranger to us."

Taliesin could have struck the boy for his stubbornness. His head was aching and the muscles of his shoulders cramped and hurt with every move, time was flying by and danger was drawing ever closer. There was no time to waste. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and once more looked at Guinevere, ignoring the petulant knight for the moment.

"As you trust your father to know things from the songs of birds or the talk of the wind, please, trust me in this. It is true, I have not been here long, but we are of one family, you and I, and as such, I would never bring you harm!" Never before had he spoken with more reluctance. He had not wanted to reveal the story of his birth to the queen, or indeed to anyone in Camelot. But even as he spoke, he could see the doubt flicker in her eyes.

"Of one family...?" she asked slowly, "I think I would have remembered you."

"My lady," Galahad tried to interject, but Guinevere waved him off and nodded at Taliesin to continue. He remembered with painful clarity the image of the queen he had seen in the vision sent by Darkness, her pale, pretty corpse on the ground, his dagger wet with her blood. _Never, _he vowed silently. _Never._

"No doubt you have heard tales of where I come from. But this is the truth. My father was Roman, true, but my mother was Nimue, sister to Merlin. I am thus sister-son to your father, and perhaps you have heard of me... by another name."

Her eyes lit up and her lips curled into a slight smile. She turned to Galahad, who had been watching the exchange with an impatient expression.

"Have them bolt the gate," she ordered. "And call to arms every man and woman who can wield a weapon."

The young man's lips tightened and he looked for a moment as if he wanted to object, then he gave a brief nod and limped from the room.

Guinevere turned to follow him, but then cast another look at Taliesin, and put her hand on his shoulder for a moment. It felt as if a little bird had landed on him, the sleeve of her tunic brushing his neck like the touch of feathers. He could not say what she saw in his narrow face, his eyes which seemed like quicksilver in the dim light. Perhaps it was merely a reflection of her own expression in the grim set of his jaw, or perhaps she saw herself in his eyes. Either way, though they had not spoken in private ever before, in that moment they felt the ties of blood clearly.

And in the tongue of her people, she spoke to him, "_Welcome, Gwion. I pray this be your home from now on_."

He smiled at her and nodded his head, but he made no promises. As Gwion, he might have stayed forever, a knight in her husband's warband, a bard at his court, but as Taliesin, he knew of too many secrets and too many dark places in the world. The raven's spirit inside him was calling to him to spread his wings and he knew that soon, he would have to depart.

OooOooO

Rhian came to, slowly but surely. Everything around her was a blur, the light was too bright and her head throbbed painfully. She felt hot, sticky blood in her hair and all down the right side of her face. As she tried moving, she found that she was bound, hand and foot, and laid on one of the cots in the healing rooms.

For a moment, she had could not recall what had happened, but then it came rushing back to her, and she snapped her eyes shut again and forced her breathing to slow.

_Pretend..._If for now she could fool her captors into believing that she was still unconscious, perhaps she might find out who held her and why.

It was uncomfortably warm, the fire crackled loudly in the hearth and there was a heavy scent in the air, sweet and cloying. She could hear the swish of fabric, like the rustle of skirts, and hesitantly opened her eyes a fraction.

Morfudd was standing in front of the fire, her sleeves pushed back and a long, curved knife in one hand. The blade was stained with blood, blood from a long gash in her left forearm. She let a few drops trickle into the fire, which hissed and spat in response. Her long blond hair _How could it be blond? It had been white, like snow and ice, stark white! _was braided in an intricate pattern down her back. She swayed from side to side, her thin, sinewy body waving to and fro like reeds swayed be the wind. A strange sound came from her, a bit like the howling of the wind, or the mourning cry of a sea gull, or something else altogether. She could not quite name it, but it filled her with dread. Next to her, on the floor, Eadwig cowered, his hands clutching at his hair. He whimpered quietly. Gawain lay unconscious still, but Rhian could see that some of his long hair had been cut off, for whatever reason.

Morfudd's wailing song grew louder, and she turned from the fire. The flames, twitching madly, casting shadows everywhere, flared, and in the insane light, the witch looked tall and menacing as she thrust one hand at Eadwig, who stopped his whining at once. He rose to his feet, oddly stiff and slow, like wooden puppet.

"Go," Morfudd told him, her voice soft and sweet, but with eyes like chips of ice, "go and do our work, my little pet. And be quick about it."

Rhian's husband turned without a word and headed for the door. As he faced her for a brief moment, she could not suppress a gasp. She had seen eyes like his before, in corpses, shortly after death, eyes devoid of all feeling or thought, devoid of life and soul.

The sound brought Morfudd's attention upon her, and the witch smiled to find the young woman awake. Rhian's horror only increased as she came closer to where she lay bound and she could see that the old woman was no longer old at all. Her skin, spotted with age and papery thin before, had turned smooth and pale, like polished marble. Morfudd smiled thinly, her pallid lips parting over white teeth.

"And so we meet again, Rhian. And I see you kept the child. That is well, though it did break poor Eadwig's heart to hear you turned another man's whore."

"What do you want of me?" Rhian hissed, her voice firmer and angrier than she had dared to hope. She tugged at the bonds that held her, to no avail. "Release me! You will never get Eadwig to harm me, whatever you tell him!"

"Harm you?" Morfudd sank onto the cot next to her and ran her thin fingers through Rhian's hair. "I would not harm you, sweet child. I told you before, I would do nothing to harm your boy. He will have so much potential, all that his father has left untapped. And with me raising him..."

Rhian tried to wrench her head back from the witch's bony hand. Her eyes burned with fury.

"You, raise him! Over my dead body!"

Again, Morfudd smiled. Her finger tightened and her nails bit into Rhian's scalp.

"Indeed, dead girl. Indeed."

_...to be continued..._


	21. Chapter 20

Now we are home

_A.N.: My dear readers, I am very sorry for the long time it took me to return to this story. The past half year has been hellish, however. My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and we, as a family, had to deal with that and see how he responded to treatment and so on. I don't want to bore you with this stuff, I just want to let you know that I have not forgotten this story and I still intend to finish it. _

_Thank you for reading, I hope you'll enjoy it still, after all this time. To me, this chapter feels a little choppy, and I know that it is rather short, but I'm still easing back into it. The next one will be better, I hope. Please review._

Chapter Twenty

Camlann was burning. The people watched, petrified, from the battlements of Camelot as their houses went up in flames, their livelihood turning into ash before their eyes. Dark shapes moved amidst the flickering light of the fires, Caradoc's men, coming ever closer to the barred and bolted gate of Camelot. The men and women watched helplessly, clutching crude, makeshift weapons in trembling hands. Women burst into tears, averting their eyes from the sight, their tears turned into streaks of copper by the firelight.

"Archers!" Guinevere's clear voice rang out, and the creaking of two dozen bowstrings answered her, as they were drawn back, arrows notched, aiming at the shadowy enemy in the night. A war cry rose, an ungodly howl, terrifying enough to set the bones of Camelot's defenders to shaking, as the attackers surged forward, charging towards the walls.

"And release!" came the queen's cry. The bows sang, the arrows flew, and the war cry turned into individual screams of pain as many an arrow struck home. The people of Camelot cheered and their strength returned threefold. Their homes they could burn, but their loved ones, their lives, their children they would not touch, as long as their beloved queen was still with them, commanding them into battle.

OooOooO

On Arthur's front, the battle had scarcely begun before turning into slaughter. Maelgwyn had not counted on Merlin's men among Arthur's forces, and the knights, better trained than any force in Britain, cut through the armed clansmen in nothing but boiled leather and cloth like a sharp scythe through wheat. After one charge only, Maelgwyn's men were running, tripping over the corpses of their fallen comrades in their haste.

The self-styled king of Gwynedd himself had fled the field of battle as soon as he had seen how outmatched his men were. He had turned tail and ran, surrounded by the only men on horseback in his entire army.

Arthur called a stop to the madness shortly afterwards, and his men pulled back, allowing the disorganized horde to flee before them and disappear into the forest. The ground was slick with blood.

As his knights gathered around him, Arthur quickly glanced over each of them, breathing more freely as he saw them all alive and none hurt to gravely. They had weathered one more storm. But the danger was not over yet, they knew, for Caradoc was somewhere, and with him an army they had not yet defeated.

An uneasy thought had settled deep within him.

_Had that really been it? Could it have been this easy? Or were the rest of them waiting somewhere, or worse, striking the heart of his young kingdom as it lay all but unprotected?_

After a moment's deliberation, he commanded half his force to stay with the wounded and make the trek back at a slower pace, the other half he led with full speed back the way they had come, back towards Camelot.

OooOooO

Marian flinched whenever the sound of the battering ram striking the gate echoed across the courtyard of the fortress. She had gathered a group of women and children around her and tried to keep them calm by giving them a number of easy tasks to do like preparing bandages or fetching and heating water to be used later when the wounded were sure to arrive.

It was there that Galahad found her. The young knight was still limping badly, but the imminent danger allowed him to disregard the pain.

"Marian," he called her, forcing her to quickly disentangle herself from three crying children who had tried to climb into her lap simultaneously.

"Sir," she answered, bobbed her head and wiped her hands on her skirt, "what can I do for you?" Her voice had already adopted the tone she usually reserved for dealing with wounded men who were too stubborn to lay still while being tended.

Galahad gave her an appreciative nod as he regarded the group she was supervising.

"Keep them as busy as you can," he advised in an undertone. "Anything to prevent them from flooding the courtyard in a panic. Also, find your father and your sister and fetch all the healing supplies you can find."

She nodded quickly, but caught his arm as he turned away.

"Sir... how bad is it?"

Her voice was barely a whisper, almost inaudible over the hustle and bustle in the courtyard. He regarded her silently for a moment, his youthful face grim above the dark beard. The torchlight bathed him in golden glow and cast dark shadows onto his high cheekbones.

"It is bad, Marian," he answered her evenly after a while, "very bad. If they break through the gate before reinforcements come, we will all be dead by the time Arthur returns."

Marian felt her heart turn to ice at these words, felt the icy claw of fear grasp her chest even more tightly, but she swallowed and forced herself to adopt a brave face.

"Stay safe, my lord," she bade him quietly and he smiled, one of those rare smiles that lit up his face and set the hearts of many girls to racing.

"You, too, Marian," he told her and gave her shoulder a brief squeeze with one rough, calloused hand. "Lancelot would never forgive me otherwise."

And off he went, back to Guinevere and Taliesin upon the wall, to command and support the archers with his own bow.

Marian stood still for a moment, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and tried to reorganize her thoughts.

Her father would be on his way already, she knew, having gathered what supplies there were at their home, and Rhian would be with Gawain in the healing rooms. It was there she should go, as well, and look in on the wounded knight as well as getting her sister and the supplies, thus killing two birds with one stone.

Her head was pounding already, every shout and scream twice as loud in her ears as it actually was, and she had to shove her way through a crowd of people, catching a dozen elbows in the sides before she reached the doors. She heard only one soft movement behind the door, and then, before she had time to turn her head, the world splintered into shards of pain and the floor rushed to meet her as she fell under the blow from the man behind the door.

OooOooO

The world slowly drifted back into focus, through a haze of red and black. Her head was pounding horribly and she felt sick to her stomach. The floor seemed to move like a ship on a stormy sea and it took all her willpower to keep from vomiting. Dimly aware that someone was speaking to her, she blinked once, twice, and wished the light would stop flickering like that. The heat was blistering. A... fire?

Marian's eyes snapped open, just as two large, calloused hands grasped her shoulders and hoisted her upwards. Her stomach lurched once more and she gasped for air.

"We have to get out!" the voice near her growled and she was pulled against a solid chest, her arm slung across broad shoulders. Tangles of blond hair caught her in the face and only then did her sluggish mind make the connection.

"G...Gawain?"

"Aye!" the knight growled, and Marian squinted at him in the dancing light. He was pale as death, and beads of cold sweat gleamed on his forehead.

"You shouldn't move," she told him weakly. He laughed, a harsh, painful sound.

"Move or burn, Marian!"

She glanced around and felt fear lance through her. They were surrounded by flames, the entire room was engulfed in fire! How had this happened? How could the healing rooms have caught fire? Was Camelot even still standing?

Fire. Right, there was... Rhian! Before she could protest again, the big knight had shouldered open the door and cold night air washed over them. She was dropped onto the floor and finally lost the fight with consciousness. Dimly aware that the sounds of battle were close by, she felt the world slip away from her once more.

OooOooO

The first sunlight of the next day fell upon a bleak sight. Many houses in Camlann were naught but smoldering ruins, blackened timber reaching up into the sky like bones amid the ash. Dead bodies littered the ground around the gate, pierced by arrows, cut apart with sword or axe. Women and children moved among them, trying to find their husbands, their fathers or brothers.

The gate had not been breached. Camelot had survived. Like the angels in those strange Christian stories, the men Constantinus of Dumnonia had promised had descended upon their attackers, driving them back into the burning village. That alone would not have been enough to ensure victory, but Arthur and his knights had arrived just in the nick of time, and together, though they were tired and bloody and their mounts near exhaustion, they had beaten Caradoc of Ebrauc, leaving his body broken upon the battlefield and his men running for the hills.

Still, the people of Camlann and Camelot did not rejoice in their victory. It had been bought at a dear cost. Many men lay dead, and not just soldiers. Farmers, craftsmen, servants, all those who had picked up a weapon in defense of their home, had fought alongside their queen, and quite a number of them had paid with their lives.

Lancelot walked among the survivors, his heart constricting with grief. He had endured both battles with nothing but a shallow cut to the arm, but there were other kinds of pain. In the distance, he saw Guinevere and Arthur talking to Gweir, but he knew that no words would comfort the healer. Just as no words would ever comfort Tristan, who had hidden himself somewhere to suffer alone and in silence.

They had just returned to the fortress, their hearts still light and overjoyed at winning, when Taliesin and Galahad had met them in the courtyard, their faces grave, and told them that someone had started a fire within Camelot.

Gawain, mercifully awakened by the heat, had managed to save himself and Marian, but for Rhian, who must have been further inside, probably rendered unconscious by the smoke, there had been no way of saving her. Nobody had yet dared to search the scorched ruin of the house of healing for the charred remains of her, but already her death was a certainty. They had searched everywhere, but she had not been found among the survivors.

Tristan had taken all that without a single word. His stony face had not betrayed an ounce of feeling while he listened to his brothers, his friends, expressing their condolences at the loss of someone whom he had never even been able to acknowledge openly as his woman. Then he had left, silent as ever, without a backwards glance.

Lancelot felt his heart sink further as he ascended the stairs towards the room they had put Marian in. While he was glad that she was alive, gladder than he could have said, he knew not what to say to her, what condolences to offer someone for the loss of a sister.

He pushed open the door without knocking. His footsteps rustled in the clean rushes upon the floor.

Marian was awake. She sat upright in bed and looked very pale and very small in the thin shift and amidst a tangle of blankets. Her green eyes were huge in her small, heart-shaped face and the look she gave him was heart-wrenching.

OooOooO

Marian did not even try to speak as Lancelot entered the room. Her throat was still raw, both from the smoke and from crying, and her mind had long since given up on speech. There was nothing to say, nothing that would make the remotest bit of sense. Whenever she had tried speaking after she had awoken out there, in the mud, she had tried to tell people that they were mistaken, that her sister could not possibly be dead. But no-one would listen to her, nobody took her words for anything more than the ravings of a girls half mad from grief.

There was no proof she could offer, nothing but the knowledge that she would have known if Rhian had died in that fire. She had always known when her sister was sick, she had always felt it when Rhian was unwell. There was simply no way her sister could have passed from this world without her knowing it.

After they had left her alone to rest, she had wrecked her brain trying to come up with some kind of plan, some kind of way to convince someone that her sister was merely lost and in need of help, but so far, she had not been able to come up with anything and the silence had become deafening. Lancelot's arrival was a gift from heaven.

Suddenly he was there, beside her, and he pulled her into a tight embrace, trapping her against his firm chest and resting his cheek on top of her head.

She closed her eyes and breathed him in, reveled in the familiar scent of leather, horse and steel, and she allowed herself to relax against him.

"I am so sorry," he whispered, "so very sorry, my love." His deep, silken voice washed over her like a soothing breeze and the iron band around her chest loosened a little.

"I will take care of you now, I promise."

She did not try to respond, did not argue. She wanted to keep this moment as a perfect memory, wanted to preserve it so she could wrap herself in it when the nights were cold and sad.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him, a long, silent declaration of love. Here, in his arms, was home. She knew that he would believe her, he would help her. Her knight, her Lancelot, would never let her down.

_...to be continued..._


	22. Chapter 21

Now we are home

_A.N.: Instead of ripping the story apart, I have decided to incorporate what would have been the sequel into this one. Therefore, the end will not be anywhere near for a while. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I am glad you did not abandon it or lose patience with me for taking so long. Also, many thanks to all of you who asked about my father. I can happily report that he is improving at a rapid pace. Even his doctors are impressed! :) _

_Disclaimer: Again, there are a few quotes from the poem "I am Taliesin" in this chapter. I don't own it, nor do I own any rights to the movie "King Arthur" or anything of the sort. I make no money from this, I just get a kick out of sharing my stories with other people. :) _

_Enjoy reading. And please review. This one's a bit of a shorty. More to come within the next days._

Chapter Twenty One

Marian held one of Lancelot's hands clasped loosely in both of hers, tracing the callouses on his palm with her fingertips. They sat on the low bed together, with her tucked safely against his side.

Sighing, he ran his free hand down his face.

"How can you be sure? I mean... I don't believe you're lying, Marian, I just... how could she have survived? Where is she?"

She shrugged, thin shoulders moving beneath the worn cotton. "I don't know, my lord. I really don't. All I can tell you is..." She put one hand over her heart, a gesture Lancelot followed with darkening eyes, looking away again swiftly, "...I would know if she were dead. I have always known if she was sick, or sad, or very happy..." Her voice turned pleading and she clutched his hand tighter. "Please, all I ask for someone to go looking for a trace of her. How could I live with myself, if I didn't make sure?"

He regarded her for a long moment, taking in her tired eyes, her trembling bottom lip, the way she curled in towards him, as if she were cold. The urge to protect her from any hurt in the world flared up again, the desire to take this fragile creature and make sure she was safe. He leaned forward, covering her lips with his in a gentle kiss.

"I will see what can be done," he promised. "Patrols go out every day anyway, they can keep their eyes open. And if nothing turns up, I will ride out myself."

Marian sighed, a long, slow exhale of relief. For a moment, she simply rested her head on his shoulder. Then she looked up again, eyes already cloudy with fatigue.

"How is Sir Tristan?" she asked carefully, as if the words might hurt him, even though he was not around to hear her. "It must be terrible for him. I confess, I... worry for him."

"More than anything, Tristan is a survivor, Marian." Lancelot gave a non-committal shrug. "He does not grieve like other people do. If the gods seek to break him with despair, he'll live to spite them."

OooOooO

Her dreams were uneasy. She felt feverish, weighed down, unable to shake herself from sleep. For a time, she felt as if she were swaying to and fro, like a leaf in the wind, then she was ensconced in a hot cocoon, wrapped in almost suffocating warmth. Her thoughts kept swimming away and she was tired of chasing after them. Dim lights flickered before her eyes, now and again she felt something touch her body, light as a feather and as fleeting as a gust of wind.

At one time, she could hear a woman's laughter, and another time she would have sworn that there was screaming, the high-pitched, agonized screaming of a man in dreadful pain, but that, too, slipped away from her faster than she could really understand it.

Fear had fled her. Pain, too, was a distant memory. There was just a blurry memory, hovering at the edge of her consciousness. The memory of a tall man with unruly hair and hazel eyes, his gaze touching her very soul and the faint ghost of a smile turning the corner of his lips... if only she could reach out and trace her fingertips along the dark tattoos on his high cheekbones... That image was the only thing that stayed with her. And sometimes, her parched lips would part to whisper only one word.

"_Tristan..._"

OooOooO

The people of Britain were hardy folk. Those who had seen their homes and their livelihood burn clenched their teeth the next day and went down to salvage what could be salvaged and otherwise started rebuilding. Smaller children ran among the charred ruins, playing and screaming merrily, smeared with ash and unaware of the tragedy that had occurred. The elder children wore faces as grim as those of the adults and they worked alongside their parents in silent, seething anger.

Arthur moved among the people, sparing a moment for everyone who sought to speak to him, for consolation or comfort, and whoever spoke to him afterwards felt better for it. There was a calming presence about the big Roman with the deep voice, a certain feeling of being sheltered whenever he was near.

As for his knights, they, too, were not idle. Three days after the battle, several of them rode out, accompanied by a group of soldiers, with the Pendragon banner streaming behind them, to hunt down stragglers of the enemy armies and as a show of strength to the rest of the people. They were indeed, a sight to behold. Led by Galahad and Lamorak, splendid astride their magnificent warhorses, polished armour and weapons gleaming in the light of the spring sun, it was enough to make any woman sigh dreamily.

To everyone else, Camelot was a place of victory, a symbol of the strength of Britain's new king. However, a close look at some of the stronghold's inhabitants would tell quite a different story.

Gweir the healer, for instance, seemed a broken man. Unlike some, he did not drown his grief in spirits, nor was he prone to fits of rage or bursts of weeping. Instead, he sat in his home, fingers clasped in his lap, and stared at nothing, at some blank spot on the floor. He responded when asked a direct question, he ate, when someone put food in front of him, and at nightfall he went up the stairs to his bed and slept, but he otherwise he might as well have been made of clay.

The charred remains of the healing rooms were being cleared up. So far, nothing had been found that would either prove or contradict Marian's assurance that Rhian was alive.

Gawain, watching the proceedings with Arthur, could not contain a shudder at the thought that he himself might have met a very unpleasant end in that ruin, had the heat not woken him in time.

The king put a hand on his shoulder. "Do you think the girl speaks the truth?"

Startled by the sudden question, Gawain looked up, shrugged and hesitated for a moment. "Marian, you mean, about her sister? I can't rightly say..." He motioned towards the collapsed structure. "When I pulled her out of there, the room was empty, that's all I can say. She believes it, though, aye."

Arthur nodded and let his gaze wander across the courtyard, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Guinevere came towards them, paler and wearier than usual. Her long, luxurious hair was unbound and tumbled down her back in graceful waves, her gait was as light as that of a doe, but the expression on her face was uneasy.

"What is it?" Arthur asked his wife as soon as she was close enough.

She took the hand he offered, her small fingers disappearing within his large palm, and he could feel her trembling. She did not answer at once, instead cast a searching look around, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

"Something strange is going on, Arthur," she said finally, her voice almost too low for him to hear. "I just know it. And... Gwion – I mean... – Taliesin has disappeared."

OooOooO

Taliesin led his horse through the dense forest, past hidden signs no-one but him would have seen. He had left Camelot at dawn, unseen by either the king or the queen, eager to avoid any lengthy goodbyes. He would not have been able to say when or if he were to return anyway.

King Arthur had been happy to greet him anew as the sister-son to his trusted ally and kinsman of his wife, but less happy that Taliesin remained more than elusive concerning his past. Save for the king and queen, and Galahad, as he had been present when he had revealed himself to Guinevere, he had asked that no-one be made aware of who he truly was, and they had reluctantly obliged.

It was memories such as that he kept on the forefront of his thoughts as his stallion entered the familiar clearing and his gaze found the remains of Morfudd's hut. A sudden sense of wrongness assaulted him. The smell of death was prominent in the air, and the little house already showed visible signs of neglect. There was another feeling, however, that made his skin crawl, a foulness even worse than the stench of decay. Something had defiled the purity of this place, had hurt the spirits and driven them away. Foul magic had been at play, and perhaps even now, demons might lurk in the darkness of the shadows.

He dismounted slowly, one hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sword, and let his horse canter back into the safety of the forest, before approaching the hut slowly. Every snap of a twig, every exhale of breath sounded agonizingly loud in the abnormal stillness of the air. The door swung inwards at the slightest touch, and the buzzing of a myriad of flies greeted him.

Yet there was not a living being inside. Utter darkness lay beyond the door frame, darker than it should be. No light seemed to cross the threshold.

He drew his sword, held it in front of him like a torch and spoke.

"I am Taliesin," he announced firmly, his voice sounding clear and true like the ringing of a bell. "I know all secrets. I know why milk is white and why holly is green... I have been a blue salmon, I have been a dog, a stag, a roebuck on the mountain. I have been dead, I have been alive! I am Taliesin... and I do not fear you!"

For a heartbeat, his sword seemed to burst into flame, a single bright glare and then the darkness was gone and he could see the beaten earth floor of the hut.

His relief was short-lived, however. There, upon the floor, lay the body of a woman. The corpse was already decaying, the skin turning black and shrivelled, but he recognized her nonetheless.

A mournful sigh escaped him as he dropped on his knees beside her. Death had not erased the gentle expression from the old face, had not taken away the smile that had soothed his worries when the Sight and the knowledge of what was to come had been too heavy upon his shoulders. His mentor lay dead, the woman who had been almost a mother to him.

He reached out a hand and touched the white hair, thick as unspun wool, and as he did so, an image rose before his eyes, more vivid than a memory.

It was Morfudd, yet not her, a woman more beautiful and more dangerous than she could ever have been. The creature rose from where Morfudd's corpse lay, rose from her body like an evil reflection and looked down upon her with a malevolent smile. And as he watched, her face grew younger, her hair lost its white hue and darkened to the colour of the sun and her laughter shook the hut like a thunderstorm. All of a sudden, the sense of foulness was explained.

He withdrew his hand, shaking now from tip to toe, and rose to his feet. Somewhere in the world, a demon was walking free, wearing the disguise of the woman he had loved almost as one would a mother, and he would not stand for it.

_...to be continued..._


	23. Chapter 22

Now we are home

_Another chapter for you. Since I can never keep my promises anyway, however, I'll make no further announcements about the speed with which I hope to update. I'd just like to say thanks for your continued interest and support. Much love, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. _

Chapter Twenty-Two

She woke slowly. Sleep clung to her, letting go only reluctantly, its soft comfort slowly melting away like mist in sunshine. The bed beneath here was soft, the pillow invited snuggling and the blanket smelled pleasantly clean. She stretched, her toes curling, poking out beneath the coverlet, and her hands brushed the wall above the headboard. What had she been doing that could have tired her out so? Slowly, Rhian tried to remember... Suddenly, she sat upright in bed, her heart fluttering in her chest like a little bird. Her hands flew to her cheeks and forehead – both quite cool now – and she closed her eyes. Morfudd had taken her away from Camelot, she recalled, through the sally port while the entire fortress had been hurtled into chaos. Eadwig had been there, but something had been wrong with him. The hatred in his eyes, the coldness, that had not been the man she had married. She had lost consciousness at some point and then... everything went fuzzy from there. So where was she now?

She cast a cautious look around. The room was small but clean, with whitewashed walls, clean rushes on the floor and a small window, covered with thin parchment. The only furnishings were the bed she lay in, a small table with just one chair and a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Someone had changed her clothes, she noticed, stripped her of her dress and put her into a nightgown of soft linen. Her hands drifted to her abdomen and she tried to listen to her own body. A moment later, a tired smile spread across her lips. She was fine, she knew it, and so was her baby. She had lost one child already, she remembered the feeling. Other than feeling a little dizzy, she felt well rested.

Now that this most pressing concern was out of the way, she noticed that she was quite hungry and thirsty. But should she dare get up? She still had no idea where she was or whose house she was being held in. While she was still considering her options, the door opened a fraction and Rhian quickly pulled the blanket up to her chin.

A boy poked his head around the corner, a lad of perhaps nine or ten years. His clear green eyes sparkled with curiosity, only to dim sadly when he caught her looking at him.

"Did I wake you?" he asked in a small voice. "I'm sorry."

Rhian could not help but smile at him. He was adorable, with his head of unruly black hair and his cheeks like little red apples. He reminded her of someone, but the connection escaped her for the moment.

"You did not wake me," she told him softly, relaxing her tense shoulders a little. "I was already awake. But could you tell me who you are? And... where this is?"

"You are in my ma's house, lady," he told her, revealing a charming gap-toothed smile. "My name is Gwydion. It was me what found you, out in the fog." The boy preened a little. "Ma says, I saved your life."

"Then I owe you many thanks, Sir Gwydion." The way his eyes lit up when she called him that was heart-warming.

"But it wasn't just me, of course," he allowed, slid further into the room and took a seat on the edge of the chair. "My uncle helped. He carried you here. Now he and Ma are looking for whoever it is you were with."

She had been alone, then? Wandering in the fog? Where in the world could she be?

OooOooO

"Sheer will won't bring him back, love."

Guinevere did not turn around. She no longer needed to look to recognize her husband's presence whenever he was close. Her gaze remained trained on the horizon, where the last rays of sunlight were dipping the world in molten gold.

"I worry for him, Arthur," she said softly, putting her slender hands on the wooden ramparts before her. Camlann lay at the foot of the hill, recovering still from the vicious attack only a few days past. She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the ravaged village and the farmland beyond, up to where the forest rose in the distance. "There is something wrong, still. I can taste it in the air. This attack was too clumsy, too easily defeated, to be anything but a diversion. The men are restless, the women are too quiet. And people simply disappearing, that's more frightening than attacks or accidents could be. First Rhian, then Taliesin..."

The king put his strong arms around Guinevere's waist and she relaxed against him with a tired sigh. His warmth chased the lingering chill from her body and the rumble of his voice in his chest felt soothing.

"They will be found. Tristan and Gwalchaved will go look for them in the morning."

She laced her fingers through his and considered his words for a moment. The evening air was soft and sweet around them.

"What if that is the very thing they want?"

Arthur arched an eyebrow and looked down at his petite wife with a slight frown. He saw it, too, she knew it.

"We are being pulled apart," she continued, again gesturing towards the horizon. "Somewhere out there, something is lying in wait for us. And whatever it is, it sacrificed an entire army just to keep us distracted."

"We have weathered many a storm over the years," the king said slowly, "and we have withstood them all. Have some faith."

Guinevere fell silent again, leaned her head back against his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. She could not remind him that his faith was the one thing they did not have in common.

OooOooO

Tristan's forefinger traced the line of the river on the map from Camelot up towards the old fortress of Badon.

"We have been receiving news of unrest from almost every village and settlement along this line," he said slowly. "Some claim they are being attacked by bands of Saxons, others claim it's Woads, Britons... it's just a matter of time before they will be calling for you to step in, Arthur."

"They are already calling," Lancelot interjected, pointing out the narrow window, through which a thin stream of pale light filtered into the room. "More people come to Camelot every day. Some only stay to pay you their respects, but others linger. Not everyone looks on the foreign king and his foreign knights favourably."

"We are not foreigners." Arthur's answer was calm, but determined. He turned away from the table towards the window, put his hands on the ledge and looked out over the courtyard. Riders were coming, voices yelled loudly. "We have made this country our own, Lancelot, or have you forgotten? Haven't we decided that? How can we ask others to trust us to rule over them and protect them, if we do not yet think of this country as our own?"

They were alone in Arthur's room, otherwise he would not have spoken so openly. A moment of tense silence followed, until Lancelot conceded, "You are right. I'm sorry." He frowned. "Excuse me, I'll go see what the commotion is all about."

He turned and left. Tristan made to follow suit, but Arthur's hand on his arm stopped him. They looked at each other for a while, the king and his scout.

"I haven't spoken to you about your loss, Tristan. I should have."

Tristan remained silent for a moment longer, then he shrugged slightly.

"I wasn't sure if you knew. And now that you do, I know you do not approve." His voice was as even as ever, but there was a defiant glint in his tawny eyes.

The king took his time, before nodding his head once. "She was another man's wife."

"She was mine!" Now Tristan's voice had sharpened. "Mine before she ever was his. I could have taken her and left the moment we were free of Rome, Arthur. You know that."

"I do know that." His hand squeezed Tristan's shoulder. "And because you stayed, I am grateful. And because you loved her, I grieve."

Tristan turned away, let his gaze roam for a moment, while their words hung in the stale air like dust. They were tired, all of them, exhausted to a point almost past endurance. All things considered, he felt naïve, even childish, as he thought of something that would not leave him alone.

"Her sister thinks she's alive."

OooOooO

When Lancelot stepped out into the courtyard, he almost collided with Gweir and Marian. In the past days, no one had seen the healer ever leave his home, so the sight of him alone was enough to stop the knight in his tracks. Gweir, however, paid him no heed, so it was Marian who caught his hand and dragged him along. Her hair was a mess and judging by the flour staining her face and skirt, she had just been baking.

"It's Lamorak and Bors, they have returned and they say they found Eadwig," she told him in a harsh, hurried whisper. "They say he's badly wounded."

It was an understatement. They had lain him down on the ground just inside the gate, on a makeshift bedding of cloaks and straw. His clothing was soaked with blood and his face was pale, with sweat beading on his skin. Dark hair, matted with moisture, clung to his forehead and his eyes were squeezed shut, yet it was indeed Rhian's husband. Marian had seen many gruesome wounds, therefore her hand just tightened briefly on Lancelot's before she dropped down onto her knees beside her father and began tearing open Eadwig's ruined shirt.

Lancelot grabbed one of the surrounding onlookers by the arm and sent him for the king. Then he approached more slowly and sank down onto one knee by Eadwig's head.

"Saxons," Gweir said grimly, "I'd bet my life on it."

He pressed the shreds of Eadwig's tunic onto a heavily bleeding cut in his side.

"Can you save him?" the First Knight asked quietly. Marian lifted her head and exchanged a worried glance with her father, before she went back to gently mopping up the sweat on the miller's forehead.

Gweir heaved a deep, suffering sigh. "No, my lord. I don't think I'll be able to do that."

"We found him a half a day's ride from here," Bors reported, drawing Lancelot a few steps away from the wounded man, "damn near cut to ribbons, and no sign of who done it."

"There was a cart with him," Lamorak continued in a whisper, "the horses were missing, the contents torn apart, but there were blankets in there and, though his attackers took most of it, I'd say enough food to last quite a while." He took a deep breath. "The miller put up quite a fight, for someone armed with little more than a stick. Whoever was with him, I'm almost sure they got away. There were tracks, but I couldn't read all that much into them."

Lancelot felt his stomach clench. "Go and find Tristan!"

OooOooO

In the early hours of the evening, as the last rays of sunshine bled red into the purple evening sky, Rhian began to feel restless. She had slept some more, and when she had awoken, someone had brought her a bowl of hearty stew and some bread, but no-one had come into her room again. Her bed was comfortable, but she longed to stretch her legs and move her muscles, so she carefully flung her legs over the side and hissed slightly as her feet touched the rushes on the floor. For one brief moment, she felt dizzy and ever so slightly nauseous, but a few steadying breaths chased that feeling away.

Her clothes were gone, but someone had placed a clean dress and shoes on the chair beside the bed. The dress was a little too short, the shoes just a little too large, but the fabric was soft and warm and she pulled them on.

Quietly, she padded over to the door and pushed. It swung open easily, the hinges creaking ever so slightly, to reveal a spacious room with the same whitewashed walls, a low fire pit in which the embers of a recently banked fire gave off a soft, reddish glow, and a rough hewn table with three matching chairs. A door on the opposite wall led into another room, while yet another door, which stood slightly ajar, led to the outdoors. A fresh, crisp scent crept into the cabin.

There were no other people around except for her, so she headed for the open door, opened it and stepped smartly over the threshold. It was colder than she had expected and she wrapped her arms around her body and shivered, but the sight before her was enough to chase away the cold a scarce moment later.

The little cottage was situated in the middle of a lush pad of grass, dotted with a colourful array of wildflowers. Tall ferns swayed to and fro in the breeze, just as if they were dancing, and the branches of many large apple trees, already in full bloom, formed an intricate canopy over a carved wooden bench in their shadow. A narrow sandy footpath led from the door down along the trees in a gentle curve until it reached the shore, where a wooden quay led out a short distance over clear water, tinted a dark, ominous blue in the light of the setting sun. No boat was moored to it. What lay beyond the water she could not see, however, as thick, opaque fog swallowed everything a short distance from shore.

"Greetings, Rhian."

Rhian gave a sharp inhale of breath and retreated instinctively to the door, when suddenly a woman spoke. She had not noticed her up to that point, since she had been quietly sitting on a stool by the door, and judging by the amused smile on the woman's lips, her frightened reaction had been quite amusing.

"Don't be afraid," she told Rhian kindly, "you are among friends. On Ynys Afalau, you will find no enemies."

The woman was half a head shorter than Rhian and at least six years her senior. She had warm brown eyes and light brown hair that was so fine that its curls tangled and untangled in the wind. Her figure was slightly rounded and soft, her cheeks reminiscent of apples. Almost against her will, Rhian found herself returning her smile.

"Are you Gwydion's mother?" she asked, although she could detect no immediate physical resemblance. Something in her smile dimmed, Rhian noticed, but the woman nodded regardless.

"So you have met him already. Yes, I am. My name is Carys. This is my house. I share it with my sister and my son. We rarely have guests here, so you must forgive my lad for being curious."

Rhian smiled as she remembered the little boy with the bright eyes and the brighter smile and shook her head fondly. "He did not bother me in the slightest. Indeed, he was most charming company." Something occurred to her then and she frowned slightly. "Forgive me, but how is it that you know my name?"

The creaking of hinges and rustling of feet amid the rushes warned her of the newcomer and she turned to see someone emerge from the hitherto unexplored room of the house. Her eyebrows rose in astonishment at the sight of the man approaching.

"Welcome to Avalon, lass," Bedwyr greeted her in his slow, even voice. "I am glad my nephew found you in the fog, for you are much missed at Camelot. But ere we take you home, I need your word that you will speak of this place to no-one."

_...to be continued..._


	24. Chapter 23

Now we are home

_Next chapter. Thanks for sticking with this story. Please review, it makes me happy. :) _

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Will you quit your squirming around?" Vanora demanded sharply and slapped Marian's fingers. Her kind, worried gaze belied the harshness of her tone, however. The girl dropped the piece of cloth she had been worrying between her fingers hastily and brushed the loose threads from her skirts. Vanora nodded once and went back to gathering supplies into two leather bags.

"I hope they'll be alright," Marian whispered and heaved a deep, shuddering sigh. The redhead arched her eyebrows at her.

"They will be. It's four knights and a Woad scout. Hardy folk, all of them."

"Hm." Too distracted to actually listen, Marian stared out into the night beyond the tavern's door. "I can't imagine riding out into that kind of darkness. It looks like there is just no world beyond the gate. Poor Rhian..."

Vanora shoved the leather satchels at her and harrumphed. "For all we know, your sister might have found shelter much more comfortable than any of us imagine."

Marian clutched the bags to her chest. "Sure..." With a parting wave at the temperamental redhead, she crept out of the tavern's kitchen and walked swiftly around the main building, crossed the courtyard and headed into the stables. Galahad and Lamorak were still saddling their horses, Gwalchaved was inspecting the fletching of his arrows and Lancelot was waiting by the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. A tense smile was all he had to offer Marian when she came over to hand him the bags of provisions.

"Thank you, dear," he said softly and touched her cheek gently for a moment.

Her chest ached and she caught his hand as he drew it back, clutching it between her own for a long moment. "You will bring her back to me, won't you?"

The dark knight hesitated. Behind him, Galahad and Lamorak were looking at her with something akin to pity in their eyes.

"If we find her, we will bring her home, Marian. But we are looking for answers about who is attacking the people, first and foremost. Tristan will ride ahead alone, he will be searching for Rhian. Don't worry, if she is to be found, he will find her."

It felt like a block of ice sliding down into her stomach, yet she smiled slightly and accepted his kiss to her forehead with grace. Internally, she chided herself to her childishness. They were the king's finest knights, dispatched in a moment of dire news, of course their task would not be to save one woman, no matter who this woman might be. Had they not known that he would disobey them anyway, they probably would not have allowed Tristan to ride further by himself.

She left the stables in a strange sort of trance. Her worry for Lancelot's safety was undiminished, but him she knew to be armed, armoured and in the presence of his comrades. Rhian, however, might just be alone out there, possibly injured... A bold, reckless plan formed in the back of her mind and she gathered up her skirts and ran towards the gate. It stood open in preparation of the knights' departure and the guards did not question her when she slipped past, silently thanking whatever gods were listening that she had taken to carrying her satchel of supplies around with her ever since the knights had turned up with Eadwig.

Tristan was a ghostly figure in the darkness, standing just outside the circle of light cast by the flickering torches upon the wall. He held his dapple grey mare by the bridle, had his sword in a sheath slung across his back and his bow on his saddle. His eyes glinted as he looked towards the gate and saw her approach. He did not speak until she was right in front of him.

"My lord," she began nervously, twisting her cold hands in front of her, "I know you are riding out to look for my sister. Please... take me with you." Before he could answer, she went on hurriedly, "For all we know she might be injured. You'd be all alone, and, no offence, my lord, but a warrior seldom knows what to do with a woman in her condition, besides... I'm not needed here, anyway! My father should go, true, but he's all that's keeping Eadwig alive, so there really is no-one else to take but me! Please, my lord." It all came out in a rushed tumble of words and she felt her ears flush crimson, but there was no turning back. Tristan regarded her with an unreadable expression, then he inclined his head a little.

"What does your father say? And Lancelot?"

Marian tilted her chin up defiantly. "They are fine with it."

"You lie."

"Alright, they don't know! But I will gladly deal with their displeasure once my sister is safely returned to us!" It was true, to a point. Fear pooled in her stomach like acid, but at the same time, she knew that she could not turn her back now. Perhaps Tristan saw it, too, for he gave no further argument, merely turned away and mounted his horse. She wanted to protest, thinking at once that he meant to ride off and just leave her standing there, when he looked down once more.

"Fetch what you need."

The tingle in her stomach intensified, but she took a deep breath and put a hand on the bag at her side. "I have what I need."

His eyes swept over her searchingly. There were a dozen reasons and more for him to turn her down and trust in his own strength to do what had to be done, but he had also seen her work many times before. He knew that she was not squeamish, that she could be strong where it counted and he had seen, before anyone else had even taken notice, that, beneath all her insecurities, she had a spine of iron.

Wordlessly, he freed his left foot from the stirrups and held out his hand. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, reached up and let him pull her onto the horse behind him.

"Hold on tight," he instructed her quietly. Marian, needing no further encouragement, wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her face against his back. Her head rested directly next to his sword hilt and the sheath pressed against her collarbone. The night lay ahead of them, inky blackness all around, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. There was no turning back now.

OooOooO

Rhian stared out into the fog and felt the weight of the night on her shoulders. Ynys Afalau, Avalon... it had been a myth her father had told Marian and her about when they couldn't sleep on cold nights in the deepest winter. Tales of a magical isle, where there was always springtime and the apples were always in bloom... If this really was it, it felt a lot less comforting than she had imagined it. The fog, gleaming over the water, visible even at night, felt ominous to her. Bedwyr had not spoken with her long after receiving her promise of silence, but had promised to tell her more later. Since then, she had not seen a soul.

Sighing heavily, she turned back towards the cottage. Warm light spilled from the open doorway and beckoned to her. Inside, her gaze fell upon yet another stranger.

A girl sat at the table, a mug of some steaming liquid in front of her, and turned her head towards the door as Rhian entered. The light glittered on her light brown curls and she had an even prettier face than Carys, although the resemblance was highly conspicuous. Her skin was pale as ivory and her eyes were of a very light blue and strangely dull. She was obviously blind.

For a moment, Rhian was at a loss for words. Looking into those unseeing eyes caused a shiver to run down her spine.

"From the way you're standing there," the girl said, sounding amused, "you must be Rhian. Don't worry, I know I look frightening, but I am no threat to you."

Her voice sounded deeper than Rhian would have expected, and it had a soft, velvety ring to it that immediately put her at ease.

"I am the one who should apologize," she replied and came closer, claiming the seat opposite her. The girl's pale eyes followed her as she came closer, judging her path by the sound of her footsteps. "I should have announced my presence. You are Sir Bedwyr's and Carys' sister?"

"I am. My name is Aeronwy." She folded her hands beneath her chin and smiled at Rhian. "Ask. I know my brother and sister have kept you utterly in the dark. Unnecessarily, I think."

"I would like to know what is going on," she admitted. "I don't even know where I am, or how I got here." A sharp gust of wind slammed the door shut and Rhian jumped. Aeronwy hesitated a moment, then she nodded once.

"You are on Avalon. My brother Bedwyr is a Son of the Isle. That means that he was born and raised on Ynys Afalau, just like Carys and me. Some of us never leave, some choose to go. But you never cease being a child of Avalon. There is much more to it than this house and our little family, you see. We are merely here because this is a place where the fog is thin and sometimes, people stumble through it quite by accident... as you have. My sister and brother are guardians of this place, here to help whoever loses his way. Or at least, Bedwyr did so until your king called all able men to arms and he, too, could not resist the call of camaraderie and glory." She smiled bitterly. "There was a time my sister could no longer stand the quiet of Avalon, either. She left to see more of the world and returned with Gwydion."

Her meaning was not lost on Rhian, who instinctively placed a hand on her abdomen. "You mean to say, he's... she is not a widow, then?"

Aeronwy laughed quietly. "No, she was never married. I am told the man she fell in love with was worth the pain, but, alas, I myself have never left the island. I would not know."

For a long moment, there was no sound but the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the steady whisper of the wind in the thatched roof. Rhian's gaze took in the length and breadth of the cottage, the two doors, the single window in the main room, the beaten earth floor, covered in rushes.

She longed to ask what else there was on this island, but, although she felt that Aeronwy would tell her, she knew that Bedwyr would not, and she chose not to pry.

"What do you mean... stumble here by accident? How can someone cross a lake without realising it?" she asked instead.

Aeronwy's answer was an enigmatic smile. "You'll see."

OooOooO

"I will break his neck!"

Meurig, the unlucky guard who had just told Lancelot that his betrothed had left the fortress but had not returned, ducked his head and did his best to appear invisible. The First Knight was not shouting, but his quiet, icy anger was much more frightening to behold.

"_His_ neck?" Gwalchaved inquired. He alone seemed more amused than anything else.

Galahad shot him a dark look, Lamorak sighed and Lancelot did not answer. Meurig, thankful that Lancelot had not reached for his swords, crept backwards behind the gate and waited with baited breath until the knights and the scout had started along the muddy path down the hill.

"Sarmatians seem to like their women the same way they like their horses... broken to the bridle," Gwalchaved continued. Their new alliance had not dispelled all of the mutual dislike knights and Woads held for each other.

"That just proves that you know little about Sarmatians or their horses," Galahad answered dryly. Then he spurred his horse forward until he reached Lancelot's side and lowered his voice. "If she's with Tristan, she is as safe as she can be out there. Maybe we will catch up with them later."

"If? Where else would she be?" The dark knight's voice was just barely above a growl. "And we won't go looking for them, Galahad. We have our mission, Tristan has his. Let them get on with it, then."

OooOooO

Gawain stared into the depth of his mug and frowned. All around him, the tavern was as alive as ever. Two of Bors' and Vanora's children were playing catch, despite the lateness of the hour, and Erec had taken up his harp and was playing a lively tune. Next to him sat Enide, one of Guinevere's friends, and listened with rapt attention.

"You look especially glum tonight," Cei observed in a tone of friendly teasing, bumping Gawain's elbow lightly with his own. Bors returned with another jug of wine and filled their cups.

"Perhaps," Gawain answered after a moment's pause. "Something feels wrong about tonight, doesn't it?"

"Nah," Bors snorted dismissively, "we sent two armies packin'. Whatever's out there, it had best think twice before bothering us here." He sat down heavily, picked up his cup and downed the contents in one. From across the hall, Vanora gave their table a worried look.

"What do you mean by wrong?" Cei asked. The Roman with the crooked nose was idly twirling a coin between his fingers and tapping it on the table in time with the music. As he spoke, his gaze followed Jols. Arthur's manservant hurried across the hall, exchanged a few words with Vanora and turned back the way he had come.

"I don't know," Gawain responded to the question, again with a noticeable pause. "Something is just different about tonight."

Again, Jols entered the tavern. This time, he headed straight for their table, gave the group of knights a respectful nod and said, "Sirs, the king would like to see you outside."

They rose, Gawain tossing back the remains of his wine, and followed him past the tables. Bors paused once to tousle his son's hair.

After the well-heated tavern, stepping outside felt like plunging headfirst into icy water. Arthur was standing in a circle of torchlight, accompanied by two armed guards. With him was Gweir. The healer looked pale and exhausted.

"Knights," Arthur greeted them, "we have news."

"Good ones, I hope," Cei said evenly, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

"Strange ones," Gweir replied in Arthur's stead. His voice, too, was shaky. "Eadwig the miller died about an hour ago."

"Anima eius et animæ omnium fidelium defunctorum per Dei misericordiam requiescant in pace," Cei said and Arthur spared him a brief smile, while the healer frowned impatiently.

"That's not all. He's gone!"

"Yes, we understood that the first time." Bors frowned. "That's... bad for him, but it was to be expected, wasn't it?"

"I don't just mean dead gone!" Gweir shouted, before a warning glance from the king caused him to lower his voice again to barely above a whisper. "His body. It's missing!"

_...to be continued..._


	25. Chapter 24

Now we are home

_Yay, another one..._

_Some elements in this chapter are heavily inspired by Marion Zimmer Bradley's "Mists of Avalon". Obviously, I do not own anything you recognize. _

Chapter Twenty-Four

The darkness was receding as the sun crept once more over the horizon, spilling pale light across the rolling hills and making the myriad of dewdrops glitter like diamonds.

Marian had revised her opinion of horses. After riding with Lancelot, she had considered them to be uncomfortable but exciting, after a night on a horse with Tristan, she thought there could be no finer instrument of torture.

Yawning quietly, she tried to blink the gritty feeling from her eyes. She could not rub them, since Tristan held both her wrists in a firm grip. Over the course of the night, she had nodded off a few times and started slipping precariously, until the knight had had enough and now kept a hold on her.

"Can we stop soon?" she asked wearily, "Sun's coming up, I'm hungry, and my rear is killing me."

She could feel Tristan's quiet chuckle, but she was simply too tired to feel shame. He brought the horse to a stop near a fallen tree and dismounted gracefully. Obviously, Marian was meant to climb down on her own, but she found to her dismay that she could not move an inch. Tristan had taken down two of the saddlebags and spread a blanket over the fallen log before he noticed that she was not moving.

"Need help, do you?" he asked with badly concealed amusement. Marian pursed her lips, grabbed the edge of the saddle in both hands and proceeded to slide carefully to the side. She would doubtlessly have ended up in a heap on the ground if Tristan hadn't reached up and plucked her out of the air. He carried her over to the log and deposited her there without further comment.

She looked around and noticed without great surprise that she had no idea where they were. Sometime during the night, they had reached the Roman road, had followed that for a while and then veered off again. Judging by the lighter sky just ahead, they seemed to be riding in an eastward direction.

While she tried to rub some life back into her legs, Tristan draped another blanket around her shoulders and handed her a hunk of bread. It tasted a little stale, but after skipping the evening meal and spending a full night in the saddle, Marian was hungry enough to eat dirt. Mumbling a quick thanks, she tore off a piece and munched on it with fervour.

Tristan ate his own portion with less enthusiasm, all the while keeping a watchful gaze on their surroundings.

"How much longer do you plan to ride today?" Marian asked cautiously. "Assuming you have any idea where you mean for us to end up?"

The scout shot her a look that was equal parts amusement and annoyance. "So far, you've been a snoring burden on the back of my horse, girl. How is it that you're supposed to be helping me?"

"I do not snore!" she yelped in outrage, prompting Tristan's grin to turn into a quiet chuckle.

He spent a little while longer caring for his horse, speaking to it in a low voice, and Marian found herself drifting off to sleep again and again.

When she blinked awake once more, snuggled under the blanket now, she saw Tristan standing a short distance off, with his majestic hawk perched on his arm. He looked troubled. His gaze met hers, and then he allowed the bird to launch itself back into the sky.

"Stay here!" he ordered Marian briskly and stalked away, before she could answer. Suddenly, she was wide awake. Something was wrong, apparently, and whatever it was, it led him away from her. Fear pooled in her stomach. She stared at the spot where Tristan had disappeared between the trees and desperately wished for him to reappear.

She was still staring at that spot when strong hands seized her from behind.

OooOooO

Camelot lay like a hulking grey mass in the pre-dawn light of the day. As the first torches on the walkways of the walls were extinguished, a tired and exhausted group of men gathered once more in the house of the healer.

Gawain sank onto the bench before the hearth and wiped at the cold sweat on his forehead. His wounds had not yet healed and his entire body throbbed dully after he had spent the night on his feet.

Arthur rubbed his eyes and sighed, Cei leaned against the wall and yawned widely.

"I can't believe it," Gweir muttered dully, kicking at the rushes on the floor. "I cannot believe this."

"You are quite certain he was dead...?" Gawain asked, only half joking. The question won him an impatient snort from the healer.

"I was already looking at corpses when you were still at your mother's teat, boy. I can tell when someone is dead, and Eadwig was as dead as they come!"

The gruff declaration drew startled looks from the knights.

"Didn't much care for your daughter's husband, did you, Gweir?" Cei asked cautiously.

"I..." Gweir blushed as he realized how he had sounded. "No, he was a nice lad. I just... I don't know why I said that." He looked at Arthur. "Forgive me, your grace."

The king waved his apology aside. "We all had a long and trying night. Let us get some rest. Answers won't come our way if we tire ourselves out completely."

They parted ways after that. Bors and Gawain returned to their respective chambers to get a few hours of sleep, while Cei accompanied the king to the hall of the Round Table. One of the chairs lay overturned and both men looked at it for a moment, before the knight made a move to right it again.

It felt like a symbol to them, a sign of the impending cracks in their closely knit circle.

"Are you a religious man, Cei?" Arthur asked after a long moment of silence. The knight hesitated for a moment, the fingers of his right hand idly tracing a wine stain on the table's smooth surface.

"I am," he finally responded, "though not in the way the pope or his clergy would describe it. I do not bow my knee in prayer every day, I do not feel that the pope's word is God's word, my lord."

The king took a seat and gestured for Cei to do likewise. Once they were both seated, he poured a goblet of wine for each of them from the pitcher on the table.

"Continue," he bade Cei, raised his goblet to his lips and took a sip.

Again, the knight hesitated. "I believe God put us on this earth, my lord, and He endowed us with free will. He created us with every flaw and every quality we possess, therefore my believes are simple: We must seek to do good with the gifts God gave us, no matter what name we call him or what the strengths He endowed us with are. The man who bakes the bread is just as much God's child as the king who rules over everything we see and beyond. And if he bakes good bread and gives of it to those who are hungry, he is more loved by God than a king who is a tyrant and mistreats the people under his care."

After this lengthy speech, Cei fell silent and took a big mouthful of wine. The king gave him a tired, but grateful smile. "We are of one mind, then. I am glad. Someone once said to me that the Rome I imagined did not exist, except in my dreams. It is encouraging to see that my dreams are shared by others."

Cei's expression was at the same time friendly and bitter. "My father had the same teacher you did, my king. Why do you think he did not return to Rome?"

OooOooO

Rhian woke to someone calling her name softly from the doorway. She blinked twice, until the world came back into focus, and found Carys waving at her, an amused smile on her face. The room was already dimly lit with the light of early morning and the delicious scent of fresh bread wafted into the chamber.

"Good morning," she said, stretching a little and then swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Carys came over and deposited a stack of fresh clothes on the blankets.

"Good morning, dear. I was wondering... after you have broken your fast, would you like to come fetch some herbs with me?" Carys asked. "It would give you the chance to see a little more of Ynys Afalau before you have to leave us again. Although we are by no means rushing you out."

Rhian's heart sped up a little at the suggestion and she could not contain a wide smile. "Oh, I would love it! But are you sure Sir Bedwyr won't mind?"

Carys had turned away discreetly while Rhian stripped off her nightshift and donned the new clothes. The dress fit better than the last one and the fabric was buttery soft.

"Aeronwy had words with him this morning." Carys laughed lightly. "But for appearances you would never guess that she is the youngest of us, for she wields her power over Bedwyr better than he wields his sword."

While she combed her fingers through her hair, Rhian hesitated and cast an uncertain look at Carys' back.

"Aeronwy... was she - … I mean..."

"She was not born without sight, no," the older woman answered. Her tone was soft, affectionate, as she spoke of her sister. "She lost the use of her eyes when she was ten. Sometimes she dreams of pictures and colours, or so she says, but she cannot describe to us what it is she sees." She turned once more, gave Rhian an appraising look and nodded. "Much better. Come and eat something, and then we'll be off."

Breakfast was a delicious assortment of freshly baked bread, spread liberally with butter, soft crumbly sheep's milk cheese and some sort of apple preserves, sweetened with honey.

Her thoughts drifted back to the brief description Bedwyr had given her of the battle of Camelot, after assuring her that everyone she cared about was unhurt. Still, it was strange to be away from them, and the knowledge that they were worried about her smarted.

"When...," she began, but fell silent, fingertips idly pushing the breadcrumbs around on her plate. She did not want to appear ungrateful, yet the question gnawed at her.

"When can you be brought home?" Carys guessed shrewdly. "As soon as the others are back, Bedwyr will take you across the lake. From there, it is only half a day's ride. You can be with your family tonight."

As they left the cottage together, Carys now carrying a small woven basket on one arm, Rhian once again felt her breath catch in her throat. All the beauty Avalon had lacked during the night, it had gained with the coming of dawn. The fog had retreated further, still hiding the horizon from view but showing a stretch of glittering lake now, water lilies bobbing on the surface. The sunlight was kissing away the dewdrops from the many apple blossoms and clumps of colourful flowers dotted the grass like assorted pillows on a lady's daybed.

"Follow me," Carys told her and led her along a narrow footpath that curved around the house and along a hedge of tall hazelnut bushes. Rhian stared. She had imagined the isle to be small, tiny, even, for she knew of no lake within some distance of Camlann large enough to hide a mass of land of any substantial size. Apparently, she had misjudged. Trees rose in the distance, and houses, both small and large, built of logs and rough hewn stone. It was a neat little village, nestled around the foot of a hill. A winding path led around and around the hillside, further up and probably extended all the way to the hilltop, although it, too, was hidden in mist. They were too far away to make out faces or understand any words, but Rhian saw both men and women moving around the buildings, children playing, too, and she could hear song and laughter being carried towards them on the breeze.

Carys let her watch in silence. She had rolled up her sleeves, taken a small knife from the sheath at her belt and was cutting some herbs by the wayside.

"What is this place?" Rhian finally managed to ask.

Carys smiled and turned back to her. She looked more beautiful in the morning light than she actually was. The sun turned her hair into spun gold.

"That," she said, pointing towards the hilltop, "is the most sacred place in Britain for those still worshipping the old gods. The people of Britain do not just split into docile Britons and wild Woads, Rhian. When the Romans came, a number of us decided to go into hiding, to preserve what we could of our gods. My ancestors came here, they called the fog and willed themselves away from the world. If all of us were here or if all of us left, Ynys Afalau would drift further away, until the way through the mists had disappeared entirely. So some of us must leave and some must stay, anchoring us here."

For the first time, Rhian noticed the tattoos on Carys' arms, thin dark lines curling around her wrist and following the line of her arm until they vanished beneath her sleeves.

"You mean to say..." Speech failed her for a moment. Her throat clicked dryly as she swallowed. "You speak of magic. I find it hard to believe..."

"Look around you. Better yet, close your eyes, breathe, and tell me that this is not real." She draped a comforting arm around Rhian's shoulders. "I would like to take you there, let you speak to our people or even climb the hill, but we do not have time. They do not look kindly on outsiders."

Birds sang merrily in the boughs of the many apple trees and a pair of butterflies danced above a moss covered rock.

They spent a little while longer walking along the winding path, with Carys picking herbs whenever she spotted what she needed, and Rhian casting curious looks around her. After what might have been an hour or two, they came back to the cottage and she noticed that the fog seemed to be coming closer again. It had swallowed the water up to the shoreline and was stretching cold and clammy fingers up towards the house. Carys had stopped smiling and her gait quickened until she broke into a run. Rhian gathered her skirts and followed her.

Inside the cottage, Bedwyr was gathering food clumsily into a bag he held with the stump of his shield hand. Aeronwy held the boy Gwydion on her knees. The boy looked frightened.

"What's going on?" Carys asked sharply, while at the same time passing the basket to Rhian and taking the bag from her brother, holding it open for him.

"They are on the lake," he told her quietly, "within the fogs, and I don't know how! You have to leave, you have to take the boy with you and go!"

His sister covered his hand with hers. "We spoke about this. I will never again leave here, Bedwyr. Take Aeronwy, take Gwydion and Rhian and go. I will warn the others and if they should reach our shores, which is unlikely, we will prevail. We always have."

For a moment, it seemed as though the knight wanted to protest. But he looked his sister in the eye and sighed. Neither Aeronwy nor Gwydion seemed surprised, although the boy turned his face against his aunt's shoulder to hide his tears.

More than ever, Rhian felt like an intruder. She was afraid, very much so, but at the same time, she did not want to disturb the little family by asking who or what was coming across the lake.

Aeronwy whispered something in Gwydion's ear and the boy straightened up, wiped his eyes and slid off his aunt's lap. He crossed the room towards Rhian and held out his hand for her to take. His little face was set in determination and his green eyes met hers without hesitation.

In that moment, the puzzle pieces fell into place and Rhian knew whom the boy reminded her of, who his father was. She had seen that look before, at the fortress of Badon, in a man commanding his troops into battle.

_...to be continued..._


	26. Chapter 25

Now we are home

Chapter Twenty-Five

Marian struggled like a frenzied animal against the arms that held her, with one hand across her mouth, the other arm trapping her against her assailant's body. She kicked her feet, tried to throw her head around, but whoever it was that held her simply lifted her off the ground. It was several moment before the fact that the man spoke penetrated the haze of panic Marian found herself in.

"It's me, girl. Keep still already." Relief overwhelmed her as she recognized the voice and she sank back against Tristan's chest. He held her awkwardly for a moment before he hastily dropped his arms and turned her around. He put a finger to his lips.

"Be very quiet. There are people in the woods, Saxons... I don't know what is going on." He nodded towards the edge of the forest. "They have a camp there, just a little out of earshot. About sixteen men, and they have a prisoner."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, while he in turn seemed to be contemplating what to do with her.

"If you have to investigate further, I can stay here and keep very quiet..." she offered timidly, silently hoping that he would agree to just that. He shook his head.

"I have to get that man out, and that means being able to get away quickly." His gaze wandered from her to his horse and back. "How well can you ride?"

Marian followed his gaze to the temperamental warhorse and felt sick to her stomach. "Not well enough, I'm afraid." As she looked back at him, his annoyed expression told her just how much he was regretting taking her along. While she was aware that she was no great asset to him at the moment, it still bothered her. "I'll manage," she finished, lowering her eyes to avoid his doubtful look.

A moment of tense silence passed between them. Finally, Tristan shook his tangled hair out of his eyes and nodded once. "Fine."

He grasped her hand in his and led her towards the tree line. The blankets and other remnants of their camp he obviously meant to leave behind. Marian gathered her skirt with her free hand and stumbled along in his wake, noticing with a twinge of annoyance that the horse followed them without being led.

Tristan set a brisk pace and more than once it was only the grip of his hand on hers that stopped her from stumbling over some root or rock on the ground and land in a rather ungraceful heap on the floor. The sound of her trotting along concerned her, as did the rather audible stomps of the mare's hooves, but the scout showed no sign of disquiet yet, so she kept her fears to herself.

Had she taken a walk in these woods under any different circumstances, she would have been struck by their quiet beauty and the overall appearance of age. Thick, gnarly tree trunks rose from amidst beds of soft moss and delicate ferns, stretching their ancient boughs towards the heavens and clutching at each other above their heads like dancers frozen in time. The fallen leaves of last years autumn covered the ground between clumps of herbs and clusters of tiny mushrooms like a multi-coloured carpet. Theirs were not the only sounds of life among the trees. Small animals scurried along the branches and birds, hidden between the leaves, sang their eerie songs into the cool air of the early morning.

When Tristan abruptly stopped, she instinctively clutched at his arm and pressed herself closer to his side. He nodded towards one the trees, a oak that looked old enough to have seen the coming and going of ages.

"If you climb up there, up to that fork, you'll be practically invisible from down here. Wait for me, and I will come back and get you."

She peered up into the branches of the tree and scratched the back of her neck. The climb did not worry her, nor did the height. When she was little, her father had been forever plucking her out of the trees around Badon Fortress.

"Will you come back, though?" she asked softly. "You cannot promise that, not when you stand to face sixteen Saxons on their own."

"Yes, I can."

His tone of voice allowed for no argument, but he squeezed her hand briefly in a gesture of comfort. Then he grasped her around the middle and lifted her up. Marian reached up into the boughs of the old oak and pulled herself further upwards. Her skirt caught briefly on a branch, but she yanked it free irritably and climbed the short distance further to the fork Tristan had indicated. Once she had settled herself somewhat comfortably with her back to the trunk and peered downwards, Tristan was already gone.

OooOooO

Rhian's heart was heavy and there was a lump in her throat that just would not go away. They had left Carys behind in the cottage and Gwydion clung tightly to Rhian's hand, tears streaming down his face, but never uttering a sound.

Bedwyr led them down to the shore, away from the house, from the dock and towards the fog that rose like a white wall around the island. It had swallowed the entire lake and reached out with cold, clammy fingers. As they reached what Rhian assumed was the water's edge, Aeronwy held out one hand to her.

"Come here," she called her softly. With only a moment's hesitation, she put her hand in Aeronwy's and let the blind girl pull her closer. Aeronwy's other hand held Bedwyr's elbow and for a moment, they stood side by side, surrounded by the swirling dampness of thick white fog.

"Rhian, when we start forward now", Bedwyr told her, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, "you need to keep walking, whatever happens. And when in doubt, follow Aeronwy. She will not lead you astray."

Aeronwy gave Rhian's hand a reassuring squeeze, and then they moved forward. The fog surrounded them completely, like a white sheet draped over their eyes. There was nothing but the pale glow of the mist around them, yet not once did the ground beneath Rhian's feet falter. She walked on, one hand holding Gwydion, the other Aeronwy. She did not look left or right, for fear of losing herself in white nothingness. Her heart beat in her chest and her breath came in short burst, but finally, after what felt like an eternity or no time at all, she stepped from the mist, with the boy, the girl and the knight beside her, and behind her lay the glittering lake, a pale sheet of mirrored sky in the light of the spring sun, and there was no sign of Avalon anywhere.

"How can we... there was a lake," Rhian protested, "There was water, I saw it. How can we be here?"

"I didn't see it," Aeronwy answered her softly, "yet I know the ground never once gave way beneath my feet. That, too, is the truth, is it not?"

"We have no time to stand and stare, Rhian," Bedwyr cut across them. He scooped Gwydion up in his arms and started walking. "I want to reach the forest before midday."

Aeronwy followed him, one hand clutching the back of his tunic. The brisk pace he set caused her to trip a little over various bumps in the ground, until Rhian gently took hold of her elbow and was able to lead her more securely.

"What is going on?" she asked, annoyance rising within her, "Can you at least tell me that? What is it that we are running from?"

"Enemies," the knight replied shortly, "enemies, who came much too close today. They should not even have been able to see the mist, much less enter it in search of the island."

"Stop!" Gwydion's voice was no more than a harsh whisper, but there was such a sense of urgency in it that it made them all halt in their tracks. The boy stared towards the forest, green eyes narrowed and a look on his face that was much too serious for a child.

Bedwyr's gaze followed his nephew's outstretched arm and spat out a curse. Rhian's heart gave a violent stutter and she grasped Aeronwy's arm more firmly as Bedwyr started running.

She did not need him to tell her that the dozen men Gwydion had spotted running towards them were Saxons, nor did she need him to tell her that they would be dead if those men caught up with them, that there was no way one single knight would be able to defend a child, a blind girl and a pregnant woman. If they caught up to them, they would die.

Everything seemed to close in around her. She was acutely aware of the ground beneath her feet, the wind pulling at her hair and the soft worn fabric of Aeronwy's sleeve under her fingers. Her own breathing was loud in her ears, a painful, rhythmic panting, and the horizon seemed awfully far away.

Behind them, the Saxons were screaming something, their voices harsh in the air like rolling thunder. To her frightened mind, it appeared as if she could feel their hands on her already, could smell the odour of their bodies clad in filthy fur and leather. It was just a matter of time before one of them stumbled, and then they would die.

Suddenly, Bedwyr gave a sharp yell of victory. Their pace slowed down and Rhian looked around frantically. Only then did she notice the new sound among the cacophony of breath, footsteps and fear in her brain, a different sort of thunder.

Lancelot, Galahad, Lamorak and Gwalchaved were galloping towards them like heroes from the legends, their weapons drawn, cold steel catching the morning light.

OooOooO

Marian felt sleepy. The sunlight, filtered through the leaves, painted pretty patterns onto her dress and it teased her with tiny fingers of warmth, like a child that wanted to play. She did not feel like playing. The fear that had been coiling in her belly like angry snakes was subsiding and it had been an awfully long night, despite the rest she had gotten earlier.

Besides, the singing was so pretty... the song promised her that everything would be alright. Comforted, she closed her eyes. Beautiful colours were waiting for her behind her closed eyelids. Sunrise and sunset at the same time, a sky that was endless and clad in its most beautiful gown, just for her. She found herself standing on a plain, soft grass curling warmly beneath her bare feet. Camelot was but a speck in the distance, a tiny spot on the horizon, and before her lay nothing but lush green meadow, spanning all the way to the sunset on the one side and the sunrise on the other. Her world, one she could hold in the palm of her hand if she wanted... all she had to do was reach the horizon.

She started walking, smiling as tiny flowers began to bloom along her path, their buds tickling her feet as she passed. The singing continued, a choir now promising her eternal happiness in the land of sunrise and sunset.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning split the sky and a thunderclap made her stop dead in her tracks. Sunrise and sunset dimmed in the distance as a raven came flying towards her. She frowned and tried to shoo it away, but it circled her, undeterred, and swooped down again.

_Marian!_

Had someone spoken? Was someone calling her? The song sounded angry now. The voice... had there been a voice? ...that was calling her had interrupted the song.

_Marian, wake up!_

Another bolt of lighting blinded her and thunder shook the earth. There was a man now, where there had been a raven. She knew that man, knew his clear blue eyes and that hair, soft and long and coal-black. He stood before her, bare-chested, and she could see the dark lines of his tattoos stretching up from his arms and curling down his chest. He looked angry. And frightened.

_Marian, you must wake up! You will die!_

Her eyes flew open and she collapsed on the ground. To her utter horror, she was no longer comfortably sitting in her tree. She had climbed down the old oak and wandered a few feet into the forest like a dog on a leash. Her heart was pounding frantically in her chest and she ran back to the oak, her hands grasping the rough bark of its trunk. Then she slid down onto the ground again, her back to the tree and her hands covering her ears. She could only hope that Tristan would not be long.

OooOooO

Tristan pushed through the underbrush as quietly and swiftly as a shadow. He held his bow at the ready and paused every few steps to cast a quick look around, so as to avoid any potential sentries.

When he came upon the encampment he had discovered earlier, he got down on one knee behind a cluster of rocks and roots and peered ahead into the clearing. What he saw there made his brow crease. Where there had been sixteen men, only four remained, along with their prisoner. While less foes was not necessarily cause for concern, in this instance it could mean that they were on patrol somewhere and might be back at any time. He disliked surprises. For a brief moment, he considered looking for them before taking any further action, but what the remaining four were doing to their prisoner could not continue.

They had strung him up with his wrists lashed to two trees, had torn his shirt and where making a game out of whipping him with a knotted rope. Blood was streaming down his back in small, crimson rivulets and more blood and sweat dripped from his forehead, but so far, the man had not made a sound, although his lips were pressed together in a thin white line.

Tristan felt a rising respect for Taliesin. A lesser man would have screamed.

_...to be continued..._


	27. Chapter 26

Now we are home

_A.N.: I'm not sure I like the feel of this chapter. Let me know what you think of it._

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rhian and Aeronwy had huddled together on instinct, Gwydion held safely between them with Rhian's hands tightly across his eyes. No child should see what went on just a stone's throw away. The sound of it was bad enough.

Saxons did not die quietly.

When the noise died down, she dared to turn around. Only Galahad and Gwalchaved were still mounted, their bows having sung their deadly melody while their brothers had gone to work with their blades. Bedwyr was kneeling down, wiping his sword on the roughspun tunic of a dead Saxon.

Lancelot surveyed the battlefield calmly, then his gaze alighted on Rhian. His bloodstained blades disappeared back into their sheaths and he strode towards her, his hands suddenly gentle as he helped her to her feet.

"You cannot imagine how very glad I am to see you alive. Your father and sister miss you greatly."

It was utterly silly, but his words suddenly brought tears to her eyes. She blinked and watched the world blur before her.

"As I do them, my lord," she whispered, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.

Bedwyr joined them, pulled Aeronwy to her feet and allowed Gwydion to clutch at his hand. The boy looked pale, yet his expression showed no fear.

Lancelot put a hand on Rhian's shoulder, the warmth of his palm dispelling the lingering chill within her bones. She allowed herself to lean into him ever so slightly and felt the tenseness leave her shoulders.

Lancelot turned to Bedwyr.

"Good to see you, too. I cannot quite imagine what in the world you are doing here..."

"I came to get my sister and nephew to safety," the one-handed warrior responded calmly. Aeronwy had turned her head in the general direction of the new voices and her sightless eyes caught the light. Lancelot regarded her for a moment, though no pity or revulsion showed in his face, before looking back to her brother.

"They will be safe at Camelot."

Bedwyr hesitated, then he gently disentangled himself from Aeronwy and Gwydion.

"Can I speak to you a moment, Lancelot? Before we take them there, there is something you should know..."

OooOooO

It had taken him two arrows and two swings of his blade and the last of Taliesin's tormentors fell dead at Tristan's feet. With a dispassionate gesture, he flicked the blood from his sword before sheathing it again and stepping over the corpses onto the clearing.

Taliesin had sagged in his bonds, barely clinging to consciousness. The scout wasted no time with the knots, instead he pulled a short knife with a wickedly sharp edge and cut the bard free in a heartbeat. Then he tucked the knife away, fully prepared to catch the wounded man if he were to fall, but again, Taliesin proved to be stronger than expected. He staggered a little, but otherwise he moved with quiet determination, limping across the clearing to a small heap of stones. Tristan followed him at a short distance, curiosity keeping him from intervening.

The stones, black and dull like coal, lay arranged in some sort of circular symbol. There was no time for Tristan to get an accurate look at it, because Taliesin stomped on it with a vengeance, scattering the pieces and erasing the lines that had been drawn on the ground with a substance that looked suspiciously like blood. Only when no trace of it remained did the bard stop. His chest was heaving and more blood trickled from his wounds. Every breath he took sounded like a quiet sob. He turned to Tristan, his clear blue eyes glazed with tears and fever.

"Thank you. So much." He was swaying on his feet and Tristan caught him around the shoulders before he could fall. With an agonized groan as the scout's sleeve brushed against the torn skin on his back, Taliesin leaned on Tristan and let him lead the way out of the clearing.

OooOooO

Marian noticed it at once when the humming in her ears stopped. It had been a constant sound at the edge of her awareness, like a nest of hornets almost out of earshot. The ensuing silence was profoundly soothing. Slowly, she loosened the grip she'd had on a sharp piece of rock. Its edges had almost cut open her palm, but the pain had effectively kept her awake.

She struggled to her feet, wincing as the sudden return of circulation caused a million pins and needles to stab at her legs.

A few moments later, the sounds of hoof beats heralded Tristan's return. A gasp escaped her as he came into view, leading his horse by the bridle, with the sunken figure of a man in the saddle. Upon seeing her, a weak smile appeared on Taliesin's face and a bit of light returned to his clear blue eyes.

In all honesty, it was not his battered and bloodied state that shocked Marian to the core, it was the sight of him, tattoos bare before her eyes, and the realisation that it had been he who had woken her from the fevered dream, Taliesin, who had turned from raven to man before her eyes. Though it had been but a dream, it nonetheless caused a shiver to run down her spine.

She ran towards them.

"What happened?" Her voice was hoarse, as if she had spent a long time shouting.

"Don't know yet," Tristan replied shortly, nodding at Taliesin. "He is not up for a long interrogation. Let's get away from here first."

Taliesin seemed not inclined to argue. Marian grabbed a hold of one of the saddle's straps on the other side of the horse and fell into step. If the wounded man were to fall, chances were good that either she or Tristan would be able to catch him. She would have though Taliesin to be barely conscious, but a moment later, one of his hands moved, covering hers and squeezing it gently. After a moment's hesitation, she turned her hand beneath his palm, laced her fingers through his and returned the affectionate gesture.

OooOooO

Rhian kept looking at Lancelot out of the corner of her eye. He had not said more than a few perfunctory words to her ever since he had spoken to Bedwyr, only directing her to mount his horse for the return journey. Indeed, both knights seemed to have cloaked themselves in uneasy silence.

Galahad alone remained somewhat cheerful. He held Aeronwy before him on his horse, talking to her in hushed tones and, judging by the rosy blush rising in her cheeks, succeeding just fine at distracting her from her fears.

Bedwyr was walking, carrying Gwydion with no apparent difficulty, while the boy had fallen asleep, his head lolling against his uncle's shoulder.

Lamorak and Gwalchaved had been sent on to continue the scouting mission. It had surprised Rhian a little that Lancelot had not gone with them. Again, she shot him a look. He was holding the reigns of his charger in a tightly clenched fist and stared straight ahead. Every line of his body spoke of tension and anger.

"I think I know what it is you spoke about," she told him quietly.

"I doubt it," he responded, his voice just a little warmer than a glacier. It should have told her to stay quiet, she knew, but obedience had never been her greatest talent. She leaned forwards, her hands still clutching the rim of the saddle, until her hair almost brushed his shoulder.

"He told you who the boy's father is."

Abruptly, he stopped dead in his tracks and brought the horse to a halt. Galahad and Bedwyr glanced at him curiously, but he nodded at them to continue on.

"Listen to me, Rhian, and listen good, for I will only tell you once." He turned to look at her, his eyes boring into hers like daggers. "I am the boy's father. Whatever you think you know, whatever you think you might have guessed... you must never tell anyone. This is the only truth anyone will ever hear. Do you understand?"

She stared at him, her mind reeling. For a moment she thought about protesting, thought about demanding the truth from him. But this was Britain's First Knight, the most trusted and most loyal of King Arthur's men. She had no right to demand anything from him. All she did was give a brief nod, then they were moving again.

Why would he utter a lie like that? She knew better, she had seen Arthur look back at her from the boy's eyes. And then... Her heart clenched at the thought of what this might do to Marian.

OooOooO

After recovering Taliesin's horse, they had travelled all day and well into the night, stopping only a few times for Marian to tend to his injuries. The smooth gait of his own steed did not seem to jostle him very much, and he held on with fierce determination, but by the time the sun had disappeared behind them, his eyes had started to shine with fever and beads of perspiration had begone to gather on his forehead. Tristan, once again in the saddle in front of Marian, kept a sharp eye on the bard and frequently asked him, whether they needed to stop for the night. It was Taliesin himself, though, who insisted they press on. What he had to tell the king was too important to delay.

Marian herself had never in her life felt more tired. Her head hurt, her muscles ached and there was a foul taste in her mouth. She found herself nodding off again and again, her head dropping onto Tristan's back or lolling to the side, but those short periods of sleep were did not serve to replenish her energy.

When the lights and shapes of Camlann finally appeared before them in the darkness, she could have wept with relief. Curious eyes followed them as they rode along the main road and up the path towards the gates of Camelot. Voices called out greetings and torches were brought upon their arrival, the sudden brightness hurting Marian's eyes. This time, she did not have to wait for Tristan to help her down. As soon as they had passed through the gates, a swarm of people surrounded them, hands pulled her down off the horse and then, suddenly, she was in her father's arms, her head cushioned on his broad chest and his voice, gruff and affectionate in her ear.

"Don't ever do that again, my girl, do you hear? My brave, foolish little girl..."

OooOooO

Taliesin clenched his teeth and bit back a curse or two as Gweir cleaned and bandaged the wounds on his back. The healer worked more swiftly than his daughters, but also less gently. The wounded man lay on a cot in front of his fireplace again, where Gweir treated his patients since the healing rooms had fallen prey to the fire. A cup of strong wine, laced with a bitter tasting drug, served to numb the pain, but it also clouded the mind. King Arthur had taken a seat only a short distance away, yet his face appeared blurry to Taliesin.

"Start at the beginning," the king bade him now.

"I cannot," Taliesin replied. Tristan gave a derisive snort in response, which he chose to ignore for the moment, "that would be too long a tale to tell, my liege. Suffice it to say... I know who your enemy is. His name is Aldwulf Fflamdywn."

The king and his scout exchanged a look. It was clear that the name meant nothing to either of them. Taliesin swallowed. A lingering sweet taste was in his mouth and his tongue felt heavy and awkward. The drug was further dulling his senses and urging him to sleep. Annoyed with himself, he tried to push the feeling aside.

"He is a Saxon, my liege," he began, "a sorcerer of great and terrible power." His words were slurring and by the look on Arthur's face, it was clear that, despite recent events, the king was not yet willing to concede that such things might exist. Taliesin tried to push himself up on his elbows, but Gweir casually laid his palm flat on his back and the ensuing burst of pain sent the bard back onto his belly.

"Trust me," he begged, "I have had dealings with his kind before. He thinks that a Britain without Rome would be ripe for the taking... He thinks that... for..." The warm glow of the fire was pushing gentle fingers through his hair and caressed his fevered skin. Never before had a bed felt this inviting. What had he been doing a moment ago? He had been explaining something...

"Tristan!" With a final effort, Taliesin looked at the scout, his clear eyes begging for understanding, "Remembered the... the symbol in the woods. The wards. I destroyed them. You felt it... you must..." An exhausted groan swallowed the last words and he lay his head back down. He felt wonderfully safe. This house, this room, was a place of warmth and light and it chased away any lingering frost from his recent brush with darkness. If only he could sleep now, sleep until the dull pain in the back of his mind had faded, then he would be able to explain. He would be able to fix everything. He gave up on his tentative hold on consciousness and fell asleep.

OooOooO

They trudged up the winding path towards the gate while Camelot still lay asleep in the morning mist. Galahad was on foot now as well, leading the horse with the blind girl in the saddle and the boy seated in front of her. His head had fallen forwards in sleep, unruly black curls almost covering the pale little face, and it was his aunt's arm, locked around him in a death grip, that still kept him on his horse.

His son.

The lie tasted bitter already, and it had tasted even bitterer when he had told the boy and seen the brief flicker of happiness, almost immediately extinguished by fear. Lancelot was probably not the kind of man the boy had dreamed up as a father. The boy. Gwydion. He should really get in the habit of calling him that.

The fact that Rhian knew the truth, or at least suspected it, bothered him. He was reasonably confident that she would not tell anyone, but that, too, left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He was returning with his betrothed's sister, his friend's beloved, there should only be joy and celebration ahead. And yet, yet...

They were at the gate and the guards called down their greetings. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwydion wake and rub his knuckles into his eyes. His small mouth formed a perfect little "o" at the sight of the mighty fortress and soon, his eyes started to shine as they passed underneath the watchtower into the courtyard.

"Welcome! A thousand times welcome!" Gawain came limping towards them as quickly as his remaining injuries allowed and briefly grabbed Galahad in a rough, brotherly embrace. Already a crowd was forming and all of Camelot came awake.

A bitter homecoming, Lancelot thought and clenched his teeth until his jaw started to hurt. He turned away from the many smiling faces and handed the reigns to Jols, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Arthur's manservant, after many years of knowing the knight, seemed to pick up on his mood and did not utter a greeting, safe for a brief, respectful nod of his head.

Rhian dismounted before Lancelot had a chance to help her, and Galahad lifted first Gwydion off his horse and then the blind girl. It broke his heart to see the boy start towards him, then stop and cast a worried look at his uncle. Bedwyr could only shrug, so it was up to Lancelot himself to walk over there and offer Gwydion his hand. A tentative smile spread on the child's face as they linked hands, Lancelot's large palm, rough and calloused from swordplay, easily engulfing the boy's.

The crowd parted to let Arthur and Guinevere through. The queen's hair was still tangled from sleep and the king was not yet in armour, as was usually his custom, but they wore equal looks of both tentative happiness and unease on their faces. Behind them, Tristan followed in their wake. Lancelot felt Rhian move and then catch herself behind him. For a moment, she had been tempted to run to her lover, he knew, but then she had remembered herself.

Gwydion's hand trembled slightly in his, and he gave himself a mental shove. Somewhere, he found the strength to look down at the boy and smile before leading him forward towards Arthur. Once there, he let himself sink to one knee, lowered his head and spoke.

"My king, I bring before you Gwydion ap Lancelot, my son, born nine years ago. I ask that you welcome him to Camelot and grant him a place in your household, for he is my son and no one else's child."

Stunned silence followed his proclamation. Lancelot half expected someone to call him a liar right there, but a few tense heartbeats passed and then one of Arthur's hands was on his shoulder, the other on Gwydion's. He looked up and saw in his old friend's face the question he would never ask in public. It was almost a relief. Arthur, who knew him better than anyone, did not see through him right away. They would talk later, and there would be time to explain himself.

Never before had the deep, calm sound of Arthur's voice been more soothing than today.

"We welcome you, Gwydion ap Lancelot. May Camelot be your home from now on. We recognize that you are the son of Lancelot, our First Knight, his heir and his family before the eyes of God and the law."

As the crowd started to cheer, Lancelot glanced at Gwydion's face, his son now in every way but one, and was relieved to see the boy look up at Arthur and smile. For one glorious moment, he was but a child amidst living heroes. Then the knight got to his feet and looked behind Arthur.

Marian stood in the crowd, her eyes huge in her pale face and her expression one of stunned disbelief. Her gaze moved from Gwydion to him and back. Then, slowly, she turned and walked away into the mist of the early morning.

_...to be continued..._


	28. Chapter 27

Now we are home

_I __know __it __has __been __forever.__I __am __sorry,__once __again.__Life __has __been __busy,__I __had __some __things __I __needed __to __get __done..._

_Also, __I __had __written __myself __into __a __corner __I __wasn't __sure __how __to __get __out __of. __I __am __not __yet __out __of __it, __but __I __think __I __have __found __a __way __to __navigate __the __maze __now. __This __is __not __my __best __chapter __ever. __I __had __to __stop __fiddling __with __it __at __some __point. __Hopefully, __things __will __improve __again__ from __now __on. I am already hard at work with chapter 28._

_If __you __are__ still __reading __this, __thank __you __for __your __patience. __I __do __hope __updates __will __come __regularly __again, __but __knowing __my __history, __I __wouldn't __blame __you __if __you __didn't __believe __me.__:(_

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Arthur's face was a mask of cold fury. Anyone who did not know him as well as Lancelot might not have been able to tell, but after so many years of friendship, he knew his king's face better than his own.

They had assembled in the Hall of the Round Table, even Taliesin had been brought from his sickbed to attend council.

Bedwyr was fidgety. He kept looking towards the narrow windows, his hands, loosely clasped on the table, were twitching uneasily and he was worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Earlier, he had asked Arthur for permission to take a fresh horse and ride back out to find out how is sister was faring. Only with some delay had Lancelot added his own voice to the plea. It had taken him a moment to remember that the woman they were speaking of was the mother of his 'son'. Arthur had not allowed it, at any rate. There were questions that demanded answers without delay, he had told them sternly, and Bedwyr had acquiesced. The looks he was now giving Arthur, however, were far from friendly. Next to him, Taliesin sat slumped in his chair, white as a sheet and with a fine sheen of cold sweat on his face. The fact that they had drug him here spoke volumes about the depth of Arthur's anger.

Tristan stood apart from them all, his expression one of quiet and detached amusement. Lancelot would have liked to have spoken with him, since his and Marian's journey must have been quite as exciting as his own, but the scout was studiously avoiding him.

Gawain and Galahad had been quietly talking amongst each other, but they fell silent at once when Arthur rose to his feet and let his gaze linger on each of them in turn.

"Lancelot," the king addressed him, "your son and his aunt are seen to?"

The sick feeling had never really abated, and it returned in full force as his thoughts returned to Gwydion's pleading eyes. He had left Aeronwy and the boy with Vanora. Bors' woman saw too much, he knew, but if she suspected that anything was amiss, she would keep it to herself.

"Vanora is looking after them, my liege," he answered and did not miss the tender expression that fleetingly crossed Bors' face. The sharp thorn dug deeper into his heart at the thought of Marian. He was haunted by the sight of her walking away at the gate.

Arthur gave him only the briefest nod before turning to Bors. "Guard the door, Bors. No one leaves the room until this meeting is concluded."

Cei and Lamorak exchanged glances, then turned worried eyes toward their king.

"My liege," Cei said cautiously, "Surely there is no need..."

"There is every need!" Arthur's voice was like the crack of a whip. They could all see the anger and unease in his eyes now. "You call me your king! Yet many of you keep secrets from me while trying to control my hand. You would use me, hide behind my title, yet keep me in the dark." His burning green-eyed gaze lingered on Bedwyr, who squirmed in his seat, and Taliesin. The bard merely returned the look quietly.

"My faith tells me that these things are, if anything, evil sorcery. More than that, it is against anything I have ever learned to believe in the existence of these things. Yet I cannot deny the evidence of my own eyes. So I ask you: What have you not told me?"

Cei and Lamorak looked confused still, but Bedwyr and Taliesin exchanged yet another glance. Then, the latter sighed deeply and placed his hands flat upon the table. He looked like a wraith in the dim light.

"We kept many things from you, your grace, but we did it with good intentions. Therefore, we hope you will allow us to remedy the situation... and find it in your heart to forgive us."

OooOooO

The red-haired Saxon turned the young woman's corpse over with the toe of his boot. Her fine hair, matted on one side with her blood, moved gently in the breeze. Brown eyes stared into nothingness, unseeing and devoid of life.

"Pity," the man commented, "she might have been useful."

Next to him, the demon wearing Morfudd's skin flapped a hand dismissively. "Never, Aldwulf. I know her kind. She would have swallowed her own tongue before opening the way for you. I told you, did I not?"

Aldwulf Fflamdywn bared his teeth at her. "Your advice so far has not been the best, witch. You lost the girl carrying the knight's bastard, Arthur and his queen still live and your... toy... in Camelot is unreliable at best. More likely, he is already a mouldering corpse in the ground. I wonder if should not send you after him."

He turned away and glared at the wall of fog rising beyond the burned remains of the little cabin. If the woman they had slaughtered really had been the only gatekeeper, Avalon lay beyond their reach still, although they had reached the island. It was not the outcome he had been hoping for.

The demon merely smiled at him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring his attempt to shrug her off.

"You caught the Raven, did you not?" she murmured, her lips only a hair's breadth away from the shell of his ear. "If we can clip his wings, our lives will become much easier. As for the child... he was not essential. If we have the means to break him, it would be easier still to go after the father."

The wind began to blow and howl in the trees, scattering apple blossoms everywhere and whipping the embers in the burned out cabin back into flames. Aldwulf Fflamdywn turned and looked down into what looked like Morfudd's eyes. At their feet, the corpse of Carys bore silent witness to the unholy alliance between the sorcerer and the demon.

OooOooO

Lancelot felt sick. The dusty sunlight pushed eager fingers into Arthur's hair, making it seem grey before its time. His face was still and white as bone. At the far side of the table, Tristan was watching the others with inscrutable hazel eyes. He alone seemed somewhat at his ease, his hands clasped loosely on the table in front of him.

Gawain and Galahad kept exchanging glances. They were uncertain, each checking with the other whether or not what they had just heard was to be believed. And Cei and Lamorak looked about as ill as Lancelot felt.

Taliesin had just finished speaking. His brow was glittering with sweat and it was obvious to all that he was in considerable pain. His hands, gripping the table with all his strength, looked like the fingers of a skeleton. Bedwyr had spoken very little, leaving the unpleasant truths to the bard's skilled tongue, yet even for Taliesin's skill, it had been unpleasant.

"You don't believe that utter rubbish, do you?" Bors, still leaning against the doors, feigned disinterest. Lancelot dimly recalled him making fun of a scared Christian's prayer for salvation. Beneath all the bluster, Bors looked quite like that man had back then.

Not that he could blame him. In halting words and with great reluctance, Taliesin had spoken to them of the spirits of the land, of the Old Gods and those, who still followed their ways. He had told them of magic, of demons, and of those who knew how to force or coerce the spirits to do their bidding. He had spoken of those who could see the future, of men who could throw themselves into the air and fly as ravens, and of evil beings that were not of this world, looking for an evil sorcerer to open a path for them.

Arthur had not once interrupted him. He had sat there, unmoving, and waited for the tale to come to an end. Then he got to his feet, slowly, a man defeated but still proud. Lancelot felt his heart constrict. He had grown up amongst a people who believed in the spirits of the land and so he was, while shaken, still somewhat able to grasp what Taliesin had spoken of. Arthur, however, the devout Christian, who had grown up with the teachings of the church and who had always dreamed of Rome, had to be utterly at sea.

Lancelot cast him a questioning look. In that moment, they were brothers again. Arthur understood that he was being offered help, but he shook his head, a nearly imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, a private, simple smile meant for Lancelot alone.

"I will speak no more of this," the king announced, "until I have had some time. I trust you all understand. Also...", at this, he leant forward, his hands flat against the tabletop, "I am commanding each and every one of you to keep silent about what you now know." His gaze found Taliesin. "Lancelot, take Taliesin to Gweir's house. The rest of you, go about your business, but be alert. Something is wrong... and it might not be kept out by walls of stone. You, Bedwyr, may go and look for your sister. Bring her to safety."

OooOooO

Marian watched them approach. She saw Lancelot take the barely conscious Taliesin into her father's house and waited. He had seen her, she knew, and he would come. Or he would not. In any case, there was nothing she could do.

It was quiet in this corner of the fortress. She sat only a stone's throw from her father's front door on a low wooden bench and was mending his shirts. Her eyes were itchy and tired, but sleep was an impossibility. Therefore, she might as well keep her hands busy.

For some reason, she felt curiously empty inside. Had someone plucked her heart from her chest and crushed it underfoot when she wasn't looking? Yet she did not feel angry, either. Disappointed, perhaps. Like a child might feel after waking from a lovely dream to discover that the world was quite as before, without streams of honey and never-ending summer.

She should have known. Or at least, she should have guessed. In all the time she had spent with Lancelot, he had never pretended to be something he was not. She had experienced what it might have been like to tumble into his bed, lured by dark eyes and a voice like a caress, and it had only been his insistence that with her it should be different which had stopped him. Different. Other women had tumbled into his bed, then, and why should not one of them end up with child? Lancelot and the women, those were tales often told in the tavern, quite a few of them told by Lancelot himself. It was her fault, really, that she had built him up in her mind to something he wasn't. A shining knight, a virtuous man who only ever desired her...

Marian snorted, cast the half-mended shirt aside and cursed herself an idiot. She had known, before she fell in love with him. He was the deadliest blade in Britain, perhaps only second to Tristan, and he was a known rake! Reality had indeed seen fit to slap her in the face just a little too late.

She did not look up when his footsteps approached. Only when he sat down next to her and she felt his sleeve brush hers did she look up at him.

It was odd that he should still be so beautiful, and yet so utterly changed. He looked tired, she observed passively, with circles under his eyes as dark as bruises. His glossy hair, dark as midnight, had grown quite long and brushed against the collar of his tunic. And those cruel, perfect lips curled into a slight smile. Marian remembered that she had once been afraid of him.

"I told you that I would only bring you grief."

His words hung in the air like wisps of fog, cold and unpleasant. Marian swallowed against the lump in her throat and forced herself to shrug.

"Yes, well... I rather thought you meant you'd die in battle, not bring home a bastard ere our wedding day."

Lancelot laughed, a sharp, unhappy sound.

"Would you rather I'd have done it after? Will there even be one? A wedding day, for you and me."

His voice softened towards the end. Marian thought that he spoke to her like one would speak to a skittish colt. And she found that she had no answer for him.

OooOooO

Arthur sat in his chair, his head bowed and his shoulder slumping as if the weight of the world had just descended on him. It might as well have. Guinevere was watching him quietly from across the room while she brushed her hair.

"You knew about these things, didn't you?" he asked her without looking up. "Magic, demons... evil spirits." He shuddered slightly. Ever since Bedwyr, Taliesin and Tristan had told him about what they had found in the woods and at the lake, a chill had settled deep within him that even the fire in the hearth would not dispel.

"Yes, I knew," Guinevere replied quietly. She put down the brush and walked over to her husband, hands gentle on his hair and her mere presence a better ward against the cold than the fire. "But I am a woad, my love. I am Merlin's daughter. Your Christian god is as strange to me as our believes and magics are to you. We will have to learn together."

Arthur frowned and got to his feet, brushing off her hands.

"Up until now, I never had to doubt my men. We had no secrets from each other. But did you see their faces? Taliesin would have preferred to swallow his own tongue before telling me just what he saw. He still hasn't told me how they caught him in the first place."

"Gwion will tell you," Guinevere answered, although her brow, too, creased in a frown. "He is just now learning to rely on other people. And the same can be said for Bedwyr and Cei and the rest of them. They are not Sarmatian knights, Arthur. They have not been at your side this long."

"And yet they call me king, and at the same time, they keep secrets like this from me. It turns me from king to court jester, and I will not let that happen. I refuse to be a puppet, even for those who call themselves my knights."

He started pacing in front of the fireplace. "How do you fight magic, Guinevere? Can you hurt a demon with a sword? I always considered fighting the spawn of hell to be the providence of God's holy angels."

A sudden noise in the hallway stopped Guinevere from answering. They listened quietly as the sound repeated itself, a strange scraping sound, and then, suddenly, a grunt of pain. The king and queen exchanged a look of alarm and Arthur swiftly strode over to the chest on which his sword lay while Guinevere went for the door. It crashed open before she had reached it and a hulking figure burst through. A dagger glinted in the candlelight, a deadly flash of silver descending towards the queen's neck. Arthur roared in fury and flung himself forward, although he knew he would never reach them in time. But Guinevere, far from helpless herself, had already ducked underneath her attacker's arm and thrust her shoulder into his midsection, while at the same time grasping his wrist with both hands and yanking him forward. The dagger fell from her assailant's grasp and she picked it up. A fist caught her in the side of the head and she saw stars for a moment. Then she turned swiftly and plunged the dagger into the would-be assassin's chest, stabbing him right into the heart, just as Arthur arrived at her side. The whole thing had taken only a few blinks of an eye. The assailant staggered... but he did not fall. He grasped the hilt of the weapon protruding from his body and pulled it out slowly. Before he had finished, Arthur, spurred on by Guinevere's scream of horror, moved again, swinging his sword in a brutal arc that separated the man's head from his shoulders. This time, he fell and stayed down.

As the head rolled across the floor and came to rest in a small pool of light near the open door, the face was finally visible. Guinevere grasped Arthur's shoulder hard enough to bruise.

"It's Eadwig."

_...to be continued..._


	29. Chapter 28

Now we are home

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Tristan's sword was almost sharp enough to cut whoever merely glanced at the blade. A red line appeared on his thumb as soon as he touched it and he laid the whetstone aside, satisfied. Galahad, who was fletching arrows at his side in the armoury, glanced up at him.

"You are getting ready to hunt." It was not a question, not even an accusation. Galahad's voice was as it always was, quiet and even. Tristan nodded regardless and smiled briefly. There was little humour in it.

"Aren't you?" he asked in return, looking at the small pile of arrows at Galahad's side. The young knight pursed his lips and put down the arrow-shaft he had been holding.

"Aren't we all. I would just feel better if I knew what we were fighting." He snorted and flicked a bit of feather from the sleeve of his tunic. "Demons? Spirits? I was content to fight Romans and Woads, at least they bled when you cut them."

That elicited a chuckle from Tristan as he slid his sword back into its sheath. "So might demons and spirits. I have yet to kill one of them."

But I will. Count on it. He did not speak those words, but they were implicit. He had not yet had a chance to speak to Rhian or to decide what was to happen, now that she was a widow. It mattered little either way. Much consideration for the opinions of others was not in his nature.

Galahad, fed up for the moment with his work, leaned back on the bale of hay he was sitting on until his unruly black curls touched the wooden wall. "What do you think about Lancelot and, well..."

"I'm not really one to talk," Tristan answered slowly, "as my own bastard is growing in his mother's belly as we speak." He shrugged. "Arthur won't like it. But I don't see why anyone should care."

He did feel bad for Marian, though he did not feel like discussing her with anyone. As Rhian's sister, she was one of the few people to whom he paid any attention, aside from his circle of friends and fellow knights. He had been a silent witness to much of hers and Lancelot's uncomfortable courtship and had long expected the ship to hit the rocks.

"Speaking of Rhian, how come you are not with her now? I would have thought you'd go straight to her after the council?" Galahad was in a talkative mood and Tristan found that he did not mind as much as he usually might have.

"Rhian is with her father. And right now, that is the safest place for her."

He took his own bow in hand, strung it and tested its pull.

"You think someone will try to take her away again?" Galahad asked, a frown creasing his handsome face. "Why?"

"Don't care," Tristan answered and looked up from his bow. "I don't mind killing them without an explanation."

OooOooO

"I don't even even know how you want me to answer that," Marian said after a moment's hesitation. Would there be a wedding day? Their betrothal was public knowledge, after all. Did she have a choice? More importantly, _did she want one?_Frustrated and overwhelmed, she hid her face in her hands and shook her head. "I don't know what to say to you."

Lancelot heaved a great sigh, smiled wryly and shook his head. "Tell me we are not just now getting to know each other, my girl. Tell me you did not misjudge me so very much." He hesitated, then leaned over and took one of her hands away from her face, cradling it gently between his calloused fingers.

"Marian... I have given so much to my king, even before he was king. I would have sacrificed my life for this land, even before it was my home. I don't want to sacrifice you. You may not know it... you may not even know me. But, despite the women I knew before you, despite everything I have done..." He sighed again, frustrated with himself. "You are the one good thing in my life. The one thing unspoilt by all the wretchedness. And with all my black heart, I love you. And I want to marry you, I want you to be there with me, for all the time we might have."

It felt like waking from a deep slumber. Marian stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. She felt the past months fall away. The kisses, the flirtatious little glances, none of them seemed to matter in comparison to the look he was giving her now. It reminded her of how he had looked after the battle of Badon Hill, wounded and weak, the fierce knight for once defenceless.

"Why?" The foolish question escaped her before she could call it back. His smile was both exhausted and tender, and he cupped her cheek in one hand.

"Because you raise me up on that pedestal, my darling. And though I know I disappoint you, I would strive to be the man you think I am. Though that might take some more forgiveness on your part."

Only when his thumb wiped away the tears spilling out of her eyes did she become aware that she was crying. She swallowed again and drew a deep breath. The tight knot around her heart had eased a little.

"Will you tell me the truth, then? About..." She could not yet put a name to it. "...about your life. Before me."

His dark eyes regarded her thoughtfully and she straightened her shoulders a little. "If you think that I do not yet know you, I submit, sir, that you might not yet know everything there is to know about me. I am less squeamish than you think."

He smiled at that, an easy smile which lit up his eyes.

"Very well. Though I warn you... I might speak truths you do not like to hear."

"I shall like lies even less," she replied. "So I'll hear anything you tell me, so long as it is true."

He nodded solemnly, though his eyes smiled. Then he took hold of her chin, tilted her face up to his, and kissed her. There was only little tenderness in the kiss, his lips were hard and somewhat desperate on hers. For a heartbeat she was unable to move, and then her lips parted and she returned the kiss, her hands coming up to tangle in his hair. His arms closed around her and they might have stayed that way forever, had not suddenly Gawain's voice interrupted them.

"Lancelot! Tear yourself away from the lady, the king wants to see us!"

They moved apart quickly, and Lancelot uttered a word in a language she did not know, though she was fairly certain it was no benediction. Then he brushed another kiss onto her forehead.

"We will speak later. I'll come and find you."

Having said that, he rose to his feet and followed Gawain at a swift pace. Gweir was with them, and Marian noticed absently that her father wore a look of alarm.

OooOooO

"What use are your men, Fflamdwyn, if any?"

The demon's voice was a low, angry hiss, as she observed the place where not so long ago Taliesin had been bound. The clearing was now littered with the corpses of the Saxons Tristan had slain.

"We do not have an army, witch," Aldwulf replied dismissively, "and you put them to little use as it is. Who is this one man, that he needs to be guarded so carefully, yet must not be killed?"

Morfudd gave a small shriek of rage and grabbed a piece of rope, still stained with the bard's blood.

"He is the Raven, you utter fool! He is the dreamwalker, the soothsayer! He is the beating, bleeding heart of the magic in this land, and as long as he is at Arthur Pendragon's side, you have no hope of beating him."

"So why not kill him?" Fflamdwyn was irritated with the woman's talk of spirits and magic and darkness. He had entered into a bargain with her to gain what Cerdic had not been able to: Britain and her riches. His men were few, and he had expected the conquest to proceed swiftly with the witch's power to aid him.

As Morfudd glanced at him, however, he was reminded of what she had offered him besides that. If they could conquer Britain, she had promised him, his path to Rome would be open.

He had been willing to let him men bleed for a kingdom of his own. He would let them bleed even more for an empire.

OooOooO

"Well, he certainly is dead now," Bors commented dryly. Arthur, Gawain, Lancelot, Cei and Bors all stood in a circle around the headless body of Eadwig, while Gweir turned him over and pushed aside the torn rags that covered his torso.

"And he was dead before", the healer growled, pointing. "Nobody survives that! I'd swear every oath, my king, that he was dead before me as he is now when I informed you of his passing."

"No one doubts you, Gweir," Arthur assured him. "But I had to be certain."

He looked haunted, white as a sheet, and it took him a moment to regain his composure. He then looked to Cei, the only other Christian in their company. The gangly knight gave a helpless shrug.

"He is dead now, my lord. He is God's to judge. As for what made him walk about... we will not learn it from staring at his body."

"Indeed." Arthur took a step back from the corpse and drew a deep breath. "We have been naïve, my brothers. We did not see what was plain before our eyes."

"What do you mean?" Bors asked, frowning. Gawain had a pensive look on his face. It would not be the first time he understood things before Arthur had yet given voice to his thoughts.

When their king turned back towards them, all uncertainty was gone from his face.

"I mean that this is war, my brothers. The little revolt of Maelgwyn and Caradoc was but the beginning. There is trouble brewing in this land, and we will not be caught unawares again." He pointed again at Eadwig's corpse. "Whosoever breathed foul life back into this body, they sent him here with the intent to kill the Queen, or myself. Had we been asleep, he might have succeeded. But now we now one thing... although our enemy might employ magic against us," his lip curled at the word; the very idea was still distasteful, "we know now that their creations can still die by the sword."

OooOooO

Aeronwy turned her face up to the feel the warmth of the sun kiss some back into her cold skin. Having spent all her life on Ynys Afalau, mostly with just her little family for company, she was quite overwhelmed by the noisy and chaotic environment that was Vanora's home, filled to near bursting with all her children. They had taken to Gwydion, luckily, and had swiftly included him in their play. Anything to distract the boy from the circumstances that had taken him away from his home was welcome.

The little house Sir Bors, Vanora and their horde of children occupied was situated behind the great hall, not far from where the fortress's little tavern had sprung up. As such, it was not a quiet place, even without the sounds of laughing children coming from within the house. People were walking past in little groups of three or four, sometimes chatting, laughing, their footsteps light when they were simply walking, heavy whenever they were carrying some burden.

Simply by listening, Aeronwy had learned a few things about Camelot and its inhabitants, for instance how highly everyone thought of the king and his knights.  
>She could have quite happily continued the day like this, sitting on a bench against the smooth wooden wall and listening to life as it flowed around her like a stream, but when she heard footsteps turn from the path and head for her, she angled her head in the newcomers direction and smiled politely.<p>

"Aeronwy!" It was the gentle, comforting voice of Galahad and Aeronwy's smile blossomed into sincere delight. "I had thought you might be resting after your journey."

He stood close enough now to block the sun, but she did not mind. Her mind's eye tried to picture him. Tall, certainly, but young. Without thinking, she reached out to him and he caught her hand in his. On his fingers, she felt the callouses all warriors possessed. She blushed a little, but did not withdraw her hand.

"I could not possible rest now," she answered instead, her smile fading. "My brother went to look for our sister and until I hear news, I doubt that I shall find any sleep. Right now I am simply eager to think of other things."

"Well, I..." She could almost hear him cast a furtive look around and indeed heard the toe of his boot scuff the earth. "Until I am called back on some errand, I'd be happy to be a diversion for you. If I can think of anything to talk about that might interest a pretty young girl."

"Oh, I am certain you could," she anwered eagerly and tugged him closer until she heard him settle on the bench beside her. "I have never been away from home. Anything you can tell me would be almost certainly new to me."

"Alright then..." Galahad agreed and cleared his throat. "Let us not speak of evil spirits or the like, though. Of that, I have heard quite enough..."

OooOooO

Rhian had just seen Taliesin out the door. The bard, while not much improved, had stated a preference for his own chamber instead of spending the night at the healer's house.

It was quiet. The day had rushed past in a hurry, her father and sister were still out about the fortress somewhere and Rhian was surrounded only by the familiar and comforting scents of home. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall next to the hearth, listening to her heartbeat. Home. For a short while, she had not thought to ever see it again. It was a miracle that her abduction had been so very short. There was still some confusion within her as to why Morfudd, whom she had perceived as strange but, in the end, friendly, would have turned against her and how she had got Eadwig to do her dirty work for him.

She felt tears sting the back of her eyes. The news of Eadwig's death had still shaken her, despite everything.

Had it not been so very quiet, she might have missed the sound of the door opening, or the footsteps coming her way. As it was, she recognized the sound at once and felt the sadness within her drain away. When she opened her eyes, Tristan was right in front of her, a small smile on his lips and his hazel eyes drinking in the sight of her.

She reached out her arms to him and he gathered her to his chest. She could feel the hard planes of his body against her, could feel every little tremor as he buried his face in her hair, and when he spoke, his lips brushed the shell of her ear.

"Don't ever do that to me again, do you hear me. Not ever again."

She shook her head a little and clutched him tighter to her. She had been wrong before. This, _this_ was home. Tristan, the lines of his body, the scent of him, of leather and horse, steel and man, the sound of his voice. She was so very much done running.

"Never again," she promised and, taking his face in both her hands, kissed him desperately. His fingers traced up her arms until they tangled in her hair and he returned the kiss with for him uncommon tenderness.

And so they stood, too caught up in each other for even Tristan's ear to catch the sound of someone else entering the house.

_...to be continued... _


End file.
